


Forgive Us Our Trespasses

by L_Imperatrice



Series: the gospel according to us [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cults, And Accidentally Joins a Cult, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), F/F, F/M, HotPriest!Jon, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, M/M, Martin is Hot for Preacher, Martin is a Lowly File Clerk, Multi, No beta we die like archival assistants, Oblivious!Martin, Romantic Comedy, The Magnus Archives is a Workplace Comedy if the Workplace is a Temple to the Eye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 51,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Imperatrice/pseuds/L_Imperatrice
Summary: 'Sexy eye cult celibate?' Martin began to type and then hurriedly backspaced. Best to be specific.'Can eye priests have sex,' he revised, and clicked enter.In which Martin accidentally joins a cult, but quickly realizes he's in need of salvation. Hijinks ensue.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/ Alice "Daisy" Tonner (Background), Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas (background), Gertrude Robinson/Agnes Montague (Mentioned), Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Gerard Keay/Tim Stoker
Series: the gospel according to us [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896991
Comments: 734
Kudos: 944





	1. Chapter One

Martin had gotten the job at the Magnus Institute as a last resort.

‘Filing’ was apparently something Martin K. Blackwood was very experienced in according to his CV. He’d been doing it for five years. He was also proficient in Word, PowerPoint, and Excel and had been described as a ‘dynamic team player’ by his former colleagues.

None of this was true. Except the bit about Word and PowerPoint. He reckoned he had the hang of those by now. 

At the end of last month Martin finally had to admit he couldn’t take care of his mother by himself and picked a home outside of the city that was within her monthly pension and close enough to visit every once in a while. These are things that mattered to him but not so much to his mother. This was fine.

Unfortunately he could not afford the small flat they were previously occupying and managed to find a dreary studio with the last of his savings. His job at a retail hell-hole had not paid well and they had let him go after taking ‘too many sick days.’ Martin had spent the past three weeks sending his crock-of-shit CV to whoever had a job opening, fine tuning it accordingly every time an entry-level job asked for ‘one to five years’ of experience. 

The Magnus Institute listing was just one of many administrative roles that paid a (barely) living wage. It had been one of the last he applied for after scores of rejections/radio silence from other companies. He hadn’t read the description particularly carefully- it seemed like the usual corporate spiel plus or minus a few specifications. 

Within a few hours Martin heard the familiar ding of his phone notifying him of an email. He sighed, gearing himself up for another failure. Leaning against his counter he unlocked his phone and opened the email.

_‘Dear Mr. Blackwood,_

_Thank you for your interest in the Magnus Institute. Your CV is impressive and we would like to bring you in as soon as possible for an interview. Are there any times that work for you tomorrow afternoon? We look forward to getting to Know you._

_Have a blessed day,_

_Rosie Brankin_

_Executive Assistant to Elias Bouchard, the Watcher_

_The Magnus Institute, London’_

A grin broke out on Martin’s face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had positive contact with another human being that wasn’t asking for his money or screaming at him. Rosie wanted to see him tomorrow! As soon as possible! She looked forward to getting to Know him!

Unsure of why he capitalized the word in his mind, he tried desperately to control his shaking finger as he replied yes, he was free all afternoon and would two o’clock be okay? He hesitated over the ‘send’ button, ultimately pressing it about thirty seconds later and immediately locking his phone and turning it over. Exhilarating. 

Within seconds another ding came through. The meeting was confirmed for two o’clock tomorrow with a ‘Jessica’ from HR. They looked forward to meeting him.

He reread the email exchange several times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. There were a few oddities he noticed, but nothing too alarming. The strange green text and eye motif in the background of Rosie’s email was definitely a choice. He had no idea why this Mr. Bouchard called himself ‘the Watcher' but he assumed it was another piece of bureaucratic nonsense he’d have to deal with working at an ‘institute.’ Academia truly was baffling.

Martin calmly placed his phone on the table and proceeded to dash into his bedroom, desperate to find his old interviewing outfit. He had a good feeling about this.

* * *

Martin Blackwood had an _okay_ feeling about this.

He’d made it to the Magnus Institute with time to spare. It was an austere, shining white building in central London, with columns reminiscent more of a temple than a research institute. Unable to sleep the night before, he had scoured their homepage for information but could only find vague paragraphs about their dedication to ‘the fountain of all knowledge, both esoteric and ritualistic’ and something about ‘gathering together the experiences of all under Knowing Eyes.’ Martin may not have gone to college but he had a few suggestions to the author of the website about their grammar. Did no one proofread anymore? His next search had been ‘what does a file clerk do’ and he managed to learn enough of the subject to bullshit his way through any questions. He hoped.

After pausing for an inordinate amount of time he made his way through the giant front doors, noting the Latin phrase etched on the mantle above. Martin had been to his fair share of historical buildings in and outside of London and a Latin motto was a sure sign of legitimacy.

The building opened to a giant domed room, light filtering in from the glass ceiling, stained and clear in turn. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor, at the center of it was a large, magnificent green eye. Sconces on the wall held lit candles which flickered in the wind he brought into the room with the opening of the door. The hall seemed to hum with an odd sort of energy, as if Martin were surrounded by a community of people eagerly waiting for his next move, and not, as he actually was, alone. He felt like a visitor to some ancient temple, not a shabbily dressed man on his way to an HR interview. The whole effect was breathtaking and deeply unnerving. 

“Name?” a voice barked from his side, echoing throughout the room.

Martin jumped, spinning around to face an intimidating oak desk that he’d missed in his musings. The owner of said voice was a severe-looking woman with short red hair and a grin with too many teeth. She was wearing a navy security uniform and looked as if she could break him in half if he answered incorrectly.

“M-Martin K. Blackwood!” he stammered, wincing even as he spoke. _She does not need your fake middle initial,_ Martin chastised himself. As soon as the woman had spoken, the atmosphere in the room abruptly changed. He felt the cold, heavy gaze of a hundred eyes boring into his back, as if he’d been judged and found wanting. _Intruder!_ They seemed to scream in his mind. _Trespasser!_

The guard, whose name tag declared her to be ‘Alice,' leveled him with an unimpressed gaze and a smirk. She typed into her computer, scrolling aimlessly and pausing once she seemed to find his info.

“ID. You’re here for an interview with Jessica, yeah?” She stated, holding out her hand.

“Y-yes, thank you!” Martin fumbled with his ID, pulling it out in her direction. It was snatched with a ferocity that wasn’t warranted, in his opinion. She looked it over multiple times, taking an inordinate delight in pretending to have trouble matching his face. After she tired of this she handed it back and jerked her head to the right.

“Head straight through the hall, the second door on your right is HR. Knock before you enter.” She turned away from him, signaling the conversation was over.

Not trusting his voice, Martin nodded his thanks. He walked down an expansive corridor lined with oil paintings and sculptures that looked incredibly expensive. All of these beautiful decorations were surrounded by etchings of eyes in every design. The whole effect multiplied his feeling of unease and he wondered if he should turn around and hightail it out of the institute. Dozens of security cameras lined the walls, not allowing room for a single blind spot. He hurried further down to the second door (not ornate, seemingly ordinary) with the words “Human Resources” marked in gold on the window. 

He knocked twice, remembering the guard’s instruction. _Get a hold of yourself!_ Martin slowed his breathing, gathering his courage as a harried voice shouted at him to come in. He opened the door to what looked to be a very typical office space and breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Hi, I’m Martin Blackwood, I-I have an interview with Jessica?” he squeaked out, taking into account the frazzled woman behind a mound of paperwork. The entire office was covered in cardboard boxes, one of which was clearly marked ‘Complaints’ in bold font. His nerves grew.

“Ah, yes!” the woman smiled back at him. “I’m Jessica- sorry for the mess, we’ve had a bit of a week with the Incident last Sunday!” She said ‘the incident’ with a strange import, as if Martin should know what she was referring to. Would he be expected to work weekends as well?

“That’s fine!” he assured. She breathed a sigh of relief and ushered him over to an office just around the corner also covered in paper and took a seat at a table, motioning for him to do the same. Martin brushed the few pieces of stray paperwork off the chair and placed the folder with his CV on the table. 

“I looked over your experience and you seem like a great fit!” Jessica enthused, clapping her hands together and disturbing a precarious pile of documents. They floated to the ground and she did not move to pick them up. “We’re in real need of some help, do you think you could start today?”

“I’m sorry?”

This _never_ happens to him. Martin does not get things easily. Martin should have to explain why he’d be a good fit. Martin should have to provide references. Martin should have to be prepared to undergo a background check and pee in a cup if need be and then be told he’s not what they’re looking for at this time. Martin wondered what kind of half-baked routine they’re running here. 

Jessica let out a self-deprecating laugh and slumped in her seat. “We normally don’t do things like this, I swear. Hell, we don’t even put out internet openings- I mean, those who Know just come to us, to be frank. It’s a calling, you understand?”

Martin nodded. Martin did not understand. 

“But we’ve been drowning in unfiled statements,” she continued. “The Archivist just goes through them at an absolutely inhuman speed! I mean, bless his name, that’s what he’s there for, but we really need to do some catch up. The job is fairly simple- just file away the statements we give you according to the system. It’ll be boring, but you’ll get out of it what you put into it!” She smiled at the end of her speech, realizing she needed to make the job sound appealing. “And of course you’ll be entitled to all the benefits and services our institute provides. After all, that’s what we’re known for!”

Martin stared. He’d gotten no real information about the job, who the hell the Archivist (bless his name) was, or what the Magnus Institute was actually known for. This was absolutely insane. He’d never filed a goddamn thing in his life. He should turn around and thank them for the opportunity, but that this isn’t the right fit for him.

“I’ll take it.”

  
  


* * *

Jessica had shoved a contract and a pen into his hands, profusely thanking him for the acceptance and ushering him back out in the hallway once the paperwork was through. 

“Just follow me, I’ll take you to your main work space. Be prepared- it’s a bit of a mess, but you can make it your own!”

Martin trailed after her, taking in the hallway once again. The oppressive atmosphere had dissipated, leaving behind the initial feeling of curiosity and warmth he’d sensed as he walked through the front doors. _Welcome!_ The eyes in the portraits seemed to say. _We’ve been waiting for you!_

Buoyed by this new sense of belonging, he hurried to catch up to Jessica who had begun to mount an impressive stone staircase which curled up to the next floor. As they reached the top, Martin saw the opening to what looked to be a beautiful, ornate library with people milling about from desk to desk.

Alas, this was not their destination. Jessica took a hard left into a dark, dimly-lit corridor. Martin followed, more wary than curious as she opened a creaking door marked ‘Storage’ which led to unsurprisingly, storage.

It was a large area filled with overflowing boxes and broken file cabinets. A light flickered dismally overhead in a strange pattern. Martin wondered if it was Morse Code for ‘get out!’ 

Jessica ran a hand through her hair, sighing as she gazed on the wreckage. “I know it looks bad, but I’m sure you’ll have it up and running in no time.” She moved over to one of the boxes, which had been labeled ‘NO!’ in a large, bold black and gingerly opened it. “You just take the statements out…” she reached inside and waved a file folder at him. “...and file it in one of these cabinets! Alphabetically. Or chronologically. I’m not sure, you’re the file clerk!” She barked out a nervous laugh. “You’ll get deliveries of these a couple of times a day from the researchers. So keep up!”

Jessica had started to back out of the room. “If you need anything just give me a shout, but I’ll be in a meeting for the next-oh the next two hours, so maybe save the questions for tomorrow?”

She was already halfway out the door when Martin made a move to stop her.

“But I-” “Good luck! I really think you’ll love it here!” she interrupted, shutting the door with a flourish. Martin stared after her, the light above him flickering ominously. 

“This might as well happen.” he sighed, sinking to the ground by the box Jessica had disturbed. This was definitely too good to be true. _This is what you get for accepting a job so quickly,_ he thought. _What would you be good for anyway, except making a fool of yourself? This is the kind of job you deserve._

He picked up one of the files, flapping it open to see what these ‘statements’ entailed. It held about three sheets of paper. He could barely make out “Statement of…” followed by a narrative that had been scribbled on and crossed out with a heavy, black-inked hand. A post-it note in the corner of the first page read in an incredibly elegant script ‘UTTER HORSESHIT.’ No legible date or name. Just horseshit, according to the writer. 

“Guess I’ll put it under H, then?” Martin placed it in what would be the first of many piles as the light flickered mockingly overhead. He _was_ the file clerk, after all. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin joins the Family. Martin should have read his Contract.

After the first shift at his new, inexplicable job, Martin collapsed on his sofa at home and slept for twelve hours out of sheer mental exhaustion. He spent hours sifting through what seemed to be ghost stories and spooky encounters, when legible. He put them in alphabetical piles when he realized all of the file cabinets he’d been provided with were crooked or locked. Someone would have to fix that. Probably him.

He woke up the next day in a foggy haze, only barely remembering that yesterday wasn’t a dream and he did in fact have to be at his place of work before nine o’clock. He flew through his morning routine and shot out the door, arriving at the institute with ten minutes to spare. The same woman (and feeling of being watched) greeted him in the entrance hall. She was not in a good mood.

“ID, Blackwood?”

Martin paused. “Y-you just said my name. I’m the same guy who was here yesterday- the new file clerk? You saw my ID yesterday?”

Alice grunted. “Don’t care. Until you have a badge, it’s company policy. ID.”

Martin handed it over and she proceeded with the same shtick as yesterday. He sighed, waiting for her to tire of it. 

“Alright then. Be seeing you.” She slumped down in her seat, beginning to file nails which resembled talons.

He took his time walking down the hallway. In the quiet of the morning the security cameras followed along with his every move, their mechanical whirring setting Martin on edge. Was there a theft problem here? With all of the expensive décor, he wouldn’t be surprised. He made his way up the stairs to his sad little room and tried the door. It opened about two inches before encountering resistance. 

“Oh, what now…” Martin muttered, opening and closing the door again. Still nothing. He put some of his weight against the door, which seemed to move it an inch or two. Abandoning caution, he put much more of his (pretty considerable) weight against the door. A deafening crash later, and the door opened to a Martin-sized hole in which he shimmied through. His triumph was short lived.

Three boxes had somehow been stacked against the door (how whoever delivered them got out, Martin could only wonder) and were now in various states of mess across the floor. This time the statements seemed to be marked up in red ink, in the same elegant hand. Sighing, Martin resigned himself to the next eight hours of his life. 

The piles grew ever-larger. Over the next three hours Martin sat cross legged on the floor (he would have to request a chair and desk), trying to make some sort of order out of the chaos. Jessica popped in and out from time to time, mostly with more paperwork for his employment and never for long enough to acknowledge a question that didn’t require a yes or no answer. At one point she dragged him back downstairs to HR to take a picture for his employee ID on an ancient digital camera. Martin used this time to make his equipment request.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that! Sure. I’ll make a note of it.” She did not make a physical note of it. Martin hoped she made a mental one. 

He dragged himself back up the stairs, pausing at the top to observe the library again. It was so tempting to go inside, meet actual people. But without a badge or any sort of authority, he didn’t want to take the risk. Instead, he stopped in the main hallway right before it and made a note of where the restrooms were located. On the right was a small kitchenette labeled ‘Break Room (Employee Use Only).' Martin felt a surge of excitement that only the thought of a prospective cup of tea could create. He hesitantly made his way over.

The kitchenette was a typical affair- microwave, fridge, stove top, and most importantly of all- a kettle! He grabbed it and brought it to the sink, filling it up and placing it on the stove. Whistling softly to himself, he perused the teas on counter (standard fare) and began to take stock of the room. No one was in here with him, which made Martin both thankful and a little sad. So far he’d only met Jessica and the guard, Alice, and neither seemed to be ideal coworkers to fraternize with. 

There was also a shocking lack of eyes. Even his dingy storage space had a few etched into the wall. He’d gotten oddly used to their presence, and wasn’t sure if their non-existence in this room comforted him or not. _I guess no one likes to be watched while they eat, ha!_ He’d yet to use the bathroom, and only hoped that the lack extended to there. He looked over a bulletin board which advertised a trivia night from two weeks ago, had several pages of elaborate kitchen rules (‘We will KNOW who leaves a mess!!’ was underlined thrice), and what looked to be a mugshot of an incredibly handsome East Asian man winking at the camera accompanied by the text “WANTED: For crimes of PASSION!”

The kettle whistled shrilly, breaking Martin out of his observations. He turned around, quickly realizing he hadn't located a mug for his beverage. He swung open the closest cabinet and yelped embarrassingly loudly.

A pair of the largest googly-eyes he’d ever seen stared him down from the back of the cabinet. Underneath, two nondescript white mugs sat on the shelf.

“Fuck’s sake,” Martin muttered, grabbing the closest one and slamming the door shut. He tipped the kettle just as two women walked in behind him, chattering to themselves. They gave a nod in his direction and he smiled shyly back, whispering a greeting. As they moved to sit down, the taller of the two perked her head up. “Do you mind?” She gestured at the kettle, moving to grab two mugs from the drying rack in anticipation. “Not at all!” he replied, handing it over and grabbing his own prepared drink out of the way. As he made his way out of the room, he tuned in to the conversation.

“Are you going to services this Sunday?”

“Oh, absolutely! The Archivist’s last statement was _transcendent_ , before the whole, y’know.”

“How could I forget? Shame that security didn’t stop her. Daisy’s usually so on top of things.”

“She was out, remember? Some sort of ever-chase thing. D’you think they got the last of the worms out?”

Worms? “Yes, I think so. Heard some of them got into the Archives, though!”

“Poor Jon. Eye-willing it’ll be taken care of before Sunday.”

“More like Elias-willing!” The two women tittered to themselves and Martin beat a hasty retreat, now armed with the knowledge that his place of work seemed to be infested with some sort of worm parasite. Par for the course.

* * *

The next few days continued in the same vein. Boxes anonymously delivered, piles growing taller, Alice harassing him daily. Except for the addition of a sad metal folding chair and a lopsided table, the job quickly grew mundane. Martin supplemented every other hour with a trip to the break room for a fresh cup of tea or a stop in the thankfully eye-free restroom to splash water on his haggard face. Fluorescent lighting did no favors for his skin. He rarely ran into anyone and never heard anything more interesting than the first conversation between the two women. Frankly, he was still a little on edge after the worm-talk.

Yawning, he made his way into the break room at around ten o’clock on Friday. _First week down, an infinite amount more to go,_ Martin groaned to himself. Grabbing his usual stained white mug, he reached for the kettle only to see that it was hot and full.

“Cheers, mate!”

The voice boomed from behind him, causing him to drop the kettle back on the stove and spin around. Leaning back in a chair with his feet on the table was the man from the wanted poster, grinning apologetically.

“Sorry ‘bout that!” He moved forward in his chair, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. Are you new, then? Haven’t seen you around. I’m Tim Stoker, at your service!” With this, he did a little flourish of the hand and a mock bow. _God, he was gorgeous._

“N-no worries!” Martin stuttered, waving back at him. “Yes, I’m Martin Blackwood, or at least, that’s what my badge says!” He gave his lanyard a flick. _Stupid. Stupid line._

Tim grinned. “What, you lying about that? What are you hiding, _Martin Blackwood,_ if that is your real name!”

Martin grabbed at his chest. “Oh _God_ no, sorry, no, absolutely not-” 

“Relax, buddy! I’m just messing with you.” Tim got up from the table, offering his hand and clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m a researcher in the library. Haven’t seen you in there, what branch are you with?”

“I-I’m a file clerk, in the room around the corner.” Martin breathed, trying to calm his heartbeat. Tim blinked in response. 

“File clerk? Didn’t know we had those. What, for the statements that end up being false?”

“False?” Martin asked. “Well, whoever’s marking them up certainly thinks so. I can barely tell what they’re about.”

Tim barked out a laugh. “That would be Jon. Classic. How are you liking the place so far? Enlightening as you thought it would be?”

Martin did not know how to respond to that. He laughed nervously, looking down at his feet. “Honestly? It’s kind of boring.”

“With the work they give you, I’m not surprised. Not sure how you’re supposed to Know anything with that garbage.” Tim looked over to the clock and let out a curse. “Sorry, I’m supposed to have this statement researched and ready to go in an hour. Say, do you have lunch plans?” He grabbed his mug and began making his way out of the room. “Me and Sash were planning on running out at twelve. You’ll love her. Meet us here at...quarter til?” He didn’t wait for a response as he left the room.

“S-sure!” Martin called after him, smiling as he got a salute and a yell of “Be seeing you!” in response.

Martin smiled down at his rapidly cooling mug of tea, not minding in the slightest. 

Maybe he’d make a friend today. Maybe he’d make two!

* * *

Martin’s two friends-in-waiting were chatting outside the break room at precisely 11:45. He smiled and waved at them as he exited the storage room and wrenched the door shut behind him. 

“Hi there, I’m Sasha, Sasha James!” The woman at Tim’s side cheerfully introduced herself, giving over her hand. Another gorgeous human being, dark-skinned and matching him in height (without heels). Her flowery perfume instantly set him at ease. “Heard they stuck you in there with the _falsies.”_

“Uh, yeah, I suppose!” He responded, matching their pace down the curved staircase. As they made their way to the front door, Alice smiled and waved at his two companions but quickly turned to a menacing glare as soon as she laid eyes on Martin.

“Don’t worry about Daisy, she’ll warm up to you! Hunt’s always like that.” Sasha whispered in his ear, taking his arm. Martin mentally noted the new name, though it did not fit the woman _at all._ Hunt however, seemed like an appropriate last name.

The three of them made their way quickly down the street, Tim and Sasha pointing out all of their lunch spots and ducking into a small kebab shop not far from the institute. They placed their orders and sat down at a table near the front window.

“So!” Tim started, drumming his fingers on the table. “Mr. Martin Blackwood. _Mah-tin._ What a name. Tell us your story! What brought you to these hallowed, sacred halls?”

“U-uh, there was a posting online? I applied, and...here I am?” Martin stuttered out.

“Very funny.” Sasha smiled and leaned on her hand. “Who brought you in? Or was it an experience you just _had_ to tell someone? Did you make a _statement_?” At this, she leaned forward excitedly.

Martin furrowed his brow. “Well, Jessica did my interview. And no, no statement. Aren’t those like, not even real?”

This seemed to give the two of them pause. “Well, no, not all of them…” She started haltingly. “But some of them, yes. That’s our core belief system. I mean, not everyone here worships the Eye, but we’re certainly all acolytes of it in some way, yeah?”

“What? What ‘Eye’?” Honestly, Martin had just thought they’d had a gung-ho architect with a hard-on for the motif. _Really leaning into the aesthetic here,_ he’d thought. 

Tim choked on his laughter. “What Eye? You’re a funny man, Martin. _The_ Eye, of course. Did you put something in that tea of yours?”

Martin was starting to get confused. Why did they bring him here? Would no one give him a straight answer? “I don’t know what you’re on about, but no matter how many times you repeat “The Eye” I’m still not getting it!” He bit out, leaning back in his chair as a waiter began to place their lunch orders in front of them.

His two companions paused, staring across from him over the steaming heat from their food. They turned to look at each other, exchanging a wordless concern. Sasha sighed and turned to look at him, her face rearranged to a wary blankness.

“Martin…” she began. “Did you look this place up before you took the job?”

He bristled. “Of course! All of the links were just some mumbo-jumbo about ‘knowledge’ and ‘experience’ and honestly, I just really needed a job quickly, so if you could spare the judgment that would be great.” 

“Look, we aren’t trying to judge you, Martin,” Tim interrupted, laying a placating hand on the table. “We’re just trying to see what you know. I mean, you did take a job with the _Magnus Institute._ ”

“Tim,” Sasha cut him off. “I don’t think he knows about any of this.”

Tim looked at her incredulously. “Any of it? Come off it. Of _course_ he knows Smirke’s Fourteen. Or Fifteen, if you’re into that New-Age shit.”

“Extinction is a perfectly legitimate fear, Tim- I’m not rehashing this argument again.” She fixed Martin with a look of pity. “I don’t think he knows any of it. Like, at all.”

“ _No!_ ” Tim responded, eyes widening. “Martin, are you telling me-”

He was quickly growing tired of this. “Look, I don’t know who the fuck Smirke is, honestly. Is this some sort of joke? I’m not going to sit around and let you take the piss. I’m leaving-” He moved to get up, his chair screeching back behind him while the other two motioned for him to sit down.

“Look, let me level with you here,” Tim reasoned. “Did you see anything beyond the Institute’s web page?”

“No, I told you! Google was _not_ very informative-”

“So you didn’t go to say, the second page of Google?”

“ _Who goes to the second page of Google?!?”_ Martin shrieked hysterically, causing the few others in the restaurant to swivel their heads around. Sasha groaned and buried her head in her arms. Tim began a maddening cackle. Martin began to get a headache. 

“ _Who goes to the second page of Google!”_ He mocked, heaving in between laughs. “What a rookie move! Have you never researched an eldritch abomination or something?”

“He _doesn’t know,_ Tim.”

“He doesn’t know!” Tim agreed, still laughing. “Mate, did you read the contract like, at all?”

A slow sense of horror began to descend on Martin as he recalled his interview. Jessica shoving papers under his nose, encouraging him to take them. He’d just signed a few pieces of paper as she muttered something about ‘enlightenment’ and ‘truth’ and honestly everything had started to feel better as soon as he put ink to page and Jessica grabbed them back and whispered something he didn’t catch and wouldn’t his mother be _so proud_ that he’d gotten a job, any job at all-

“...no, no, no no no…” He started to mutter to himself. Somewhere, from what seemed like a mile away, Sasha tried to comfort him and Tim’s laughs echoed.

“Did you just think the eyes everywhere were a fun element of _design?_ We have _thousands of cameras!”_

“Tim, stop.”

“Did you not hear about the fire on the news this past year?”

“Clearly he didn’t, Tim.”

“What about the _fucking worms_? The literal chapel? The announcements every morning and evening? ‘ _Under the Great Eye’_?”

“Maybe the speaker doesn’t work in his storage room, Tim! Look, Martin, are you-”

“Everyone shut up!” He slammed his hand down on the table, his cooling kebab jumping in reaction. “Look, just to be _explicitly clear,_ did I just join some sort of-sort of coven or something? Are we like, witches?” He laughed disbelievingly. “Like a-a cult?”

Sasha whistled lowly, her gaze falling downwards to her hands in her lap. Tim leaned forward with a leer, and Martin began to sink into his seat-

“Mate, we are _the_ cult.” He leaned back in his chair, spreading his arms open wide. “Welcome to the Beholding, baby!”

Martin stabbed down into his side salad and muttered a single, vehement “fuck” as Tim howled in the background.

Martin Blackwood, age twenty-nine. Job: Cult Member.

Pay: Minimum Wage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. Welcome to the Family, Martin! I know I promised Jon, and he is already waiting in the next chapter, if you'll have him, along with a lore dump about this dumb universe. More to come soon!
> 
> Feel free to yell at me.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Sasha teach an abbreviated version of Fear Gods 101. Martin meets the Archivist.

“So there’s fourteen fears? And they all have some sort of cult following?” Martin asked incredulously.

After ten minutes of tense silence and about twenty minutes of further explanation from Sasha and interruptions from Tim, Martin was starting to piece things together. Thousands of people across the world had deluded themselves into worshipping one of these fourteen ‘fear gods’ and dedicated their lives to the study of them. Simple, non-life changing fare, just a normal Friday afternoon, relaxing with your coworkers and learning that your world is not governed by a Prime Minister and a Parliament but rather an eldritch abomination that watches you, judges you, and knows you. _Sorry, Knows you._

“Not necessarily,” Sasha began thoughtfully. “I mean yes, each one has their following, but not everyone is as tightly organized as ours. We’ve got the most fully-functioning church and hierarchy, I would say.” 

Tim nodded along. “Yes, Elias Bouchard is a stickler for bureaucracy. It’s sort of the institute’s legacy, from what I know of Jonah Magnus.”

“But people don’t know about this,” Martin stated. “If these “gods” really exist, then why have I not encountered anything like that in my life?”

“You tell us!" Tim replied with a laugh. “I mean I grew up knowing about them, but mostly in the background. They didn’t rule my life, and I didn’t really have too much interest in them until a few years back.”

His face grew stony. “My younger brother started getting into them before me. Love him, but he has a unique penchant for getting in trouble. He’d gotten caught up in one of the bad ones, you remember the Stranger?” Martin nodded though he didn’t remember. “It’s basically a cult of fucking killer clowns. Like _actual killers,_ beyond madcap.”

_Fucking clowns?_ Martin had seen IT, he’d had enough clowns for a lifetime. 

Tim continued. “Anyway, I knew about the Institute from a few friends, managed to get a visitor’s pass and talk to a few researchers there and a few statements later knew it was bad news. Met a guy there who was able to point me in the direction of our esteemed former Archivist, Gertrude.” At this name, he smiled, his brow unfurrowing. “I sent Danny her way and boom! He never went back to one of those drunken-clown bacchanals ever again. Don’t know what statement she read him, but it was enough. I’ll never be able to repay her for that, but I don’t think it was that big of a deal to her. Just her job, y’know?” He sighed wistfully. “Couldn’t get him away from everything, though. He hangs around with the Lightless Flame, but at least they take care of him there.”

“My family always knew about them!” Sasha supplied. “We’re a pretty well-read household, and my dad taught at the local college in their Parapsychological Culture Department. Almost all colleges have classes, but the elite ones tend to have more resources. It’s pretty well-known and respected at Oxford- that’s where I got my degree!” She paused, eyeing him curiously. “Did you not have any classes like that at your college? Usually they require you take at least one.”

Martin opened his mouth, about to reply, and thought better. Best not to reveal all of his cards to the all-Knowing cult just yet. “Uh, no, it didn’t really come up.”

“Strange. I was mostly focused on Literature and History, but I still took a few classes.” Tim took a long sip of his water, swishing it in his mouth thoughtfully. “And you never encountered anything like it in your daily life?”

“Can’t say I have.” Martin searched through his rolodex of memories, and didn’t immediately happen upon anything supernatural or cultish in nature. 

Sasha’s eyes narrowed, seemingly deep in thought. “Would you say you grew up in a more rural area?”

“I wouldn’t call London rural, no.”

“Not to pry, but was your childhood...isolating? You kept to yourself?” She seemed to be leaning into something, but didn’t specify. 

“...Yeah, I guess you could say that?” He didn’t like the direction this was heading in. Best not to linger on those thoughts. Best to pass them over and leave them in the haze of memories he’d rather not dwell on.

“Ah, alright.” She sat back in her chair, as if the conversation had to lead to some sort of resolution that Martin wasn’t privy to. “I guess it’s possible that you wouldn’t know. Just strange that you’ve gotten this far in life without Knowing it, in my opinion!”

“I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that you got a job at arguably the most well-known cult in the area and didn’t realize it.” Tim tried to stifle his laughter. He failed. “It’s such a big-ass building for a repository of fake spooky stories, if that’s what you were thinking!”

Martin sputtered. “I don’t know how well these things are funded! I just thought it was a well-liked institution, but full of crackpots or...” He trailed off, deciding not to insult them further.

“Incredibly well-funded, actually!” Sasha brightened and began to speak, clearly in her element. “The Eye is special in that way, it functions almost as a gateway for all of the other fears. Most of the big families from each god puts a lot of money into the institute. It’s a place where they can keep their history, relive their triumphs, study their losses. We keep a lot of statements here, dating back hundreds of years. We tolerate pretty much all visitors from any fear, so long as they treat the materials with respect. We’re also well-known for our collection of artefacts. Specifically, Leitners!” She paused, as if waiting for recognition, but quickly deflated as it dawned on her that of all the things Martin didn’t know, he was unlikely to recognize Jurgen Leitner. “Ah, sorry. We’ll save that for another time.” _Thank fuck,_ Martin sighed to himself.

“It can also, albeit indirectly, be used as a recruiting tool for the other sects.” She continued in full lecture-mode. “Everyone’s welcome to Sunday Services, and people come from all around to listen and learn. Some statements are more interesting than others, depending on your allegiance or leaning. You can go in there _sure_ you’re Web-aligned, and then BAM!” Sasha slammed her hand on the table, causing both Martin and Tim to jump. “Suddenly you’ve got a calling to join the Hunt! It’s quite thrilling.”

“Hang on, what are these services, exactly?” This was about the third time he’d heard of them, and it was starting to grate on his nerves. “Is it like a cult-y mass of some sort?”

“Got it in one!” Tim crowed. “Every Sunday, ‘round ten in the morning, the Archivist reads a statement from the Archives. He really, uh, paints a picture, if you know what I mean.”  
  


Martin does not know what he means.

“Each statement is thoroughly researched by the esteemed researchers of the second floor!” At this, Sasha puffed out her chest. “Yours truly, as it were. The Archivist gets them, vets them, and decides what he’s going to present come Sunday. We have so many statements, though, that the most recent ones are almost never read aloud in a timely manner. Most of the ones he presents are from years back. We’re still recovering from the Gertrude years.” She sighed dramatically.

“Oooh, can I please please _please_ tell him about Gertrude?” Tim begged with enthusiasm. Sasha rolled her eyes, but gave in with a smile. “Go ahead.”

Tim leaned forward on his elbows, gearing up to gesture. Tim was a man of many gestures, Martin was starting to learn. “So shortly after the whole ‘Get Danny out of the Clown Cult’ mission went down, I met Sash over here-” She waved. “-and she told me about this open researcher position. I was in publishing at the time, but I could tell the action was over here. Plus, I figured I sort of owed Gertrude one, y’know? Not that she cared or anything.” Dismissive hand wave. “But I did. So enter Tim Stoker: Researcher Extraordinaire.”

“You were pretty mediocre, to be honest.”

“Hey, I got better!”

“That you did.”

“Back to Gertrude.” Tim bounced in his seat as he said her name. “So she’s been the Archivist for years, right? Decades, even. Her services were pretty standard Beholding fare, but she got the job done. After a while, you could tell her heart wasn’t into it.” He paused, considering his words. “Her heart was into _something else_.”

“Tim…” Sasha groaned in response.

“Moving on, moving on! Anyway, at this point she starts to kind of go off the rails. I mean, really off the rails. She’s chain smoking during services, refusing to wear the proper wardrobe, she even started reading _fake statements_!” Tim glanced around at this, as if waiting for someone to strike him down. “It’s just not done, Martin.” Sasha nodded along.

“Around this time, attendance is dropping off, the Institute’s losing respect, Elias is at his wits end. And there’s all these ‘mysterious’ explosions going on around London, you have to remember that, right?” Martin nodded, excited to actually Know something. Though he was under the impression it was some sort of anarchist group that quickly dispersed after they were caught. Figures it’s another cult activity. “Turns out our dear Gertrude is really into C-4! At her last service, which I had the honor of attending, she read the statement of Agnes Montague, Avatar and known Messiah of the Desolation and Cult of the Lightless Flame.”

“This is a real violation of the rules, so you know.” Sasha interjected. “That statement had been given privately, in-person to the Archivist. We usually don’t share those except in extreme circumstances.”

“And guess who’s in the audience? The lovely Ms. Montague herself! Live and in person!”

“Another no-no.”

Tim continued. “So Elias and Gertrude get into this huge screaming match and we’re all ordered to leave, but Agnes stays behind. Hours pass, the sun sets, blah blah blah, then we get the news that Gertrude’s dead and the Chapel’s out of use for the next week because _someone_ set fire to the Confessional and completely destroyed it. Needless to say, I have a few theories about what went down in that dim little booth.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Sasha punched him in the arm.

“Gross, Tim! Just so you know, Gertrude isn’t actually dead.” Sasha smirked at this. “I’m not sure why Elias thought we’d buy that. We’re a cult that worships Knowledge. All I had to do was hack a few systems to realize she’d just run off to the Desolation, like everyone assumed. She left a fucking forwarding address. Maybe he just meant “dead to us” metaphorically or something? Who Knows.”

“Enter Jonathan Sims: The New Archivist!” Tim said the name in a strange voice that seemed like an attempted impersonation of a stuffy professor. “I make fun, but he’s actually great at his job. Really born to do it.”

“Wait, there was a brief interlude before-”

Tim burst into laughter, something he did often and with gusto. “How could I forget! So in the months we were sans Archivist, Elias took over. It was...interesting.”

“If our reputation was terrible before, it got even worse with this.” Sasha’s face took on a look of disgust. “He would read these really old- well, not statements, but letters? Like, private letters of Jonah Magnus that were addressed to his colleagues and friends. They were _weirdly_ sensual. Completely inappropriate.”

“It was so uncomfortably erotic, Martin. It was a charged atmosphere. And we attracted a lot of weirdos to services then. Luckily, they’ve dropped off by now.” Martin, who’d been absorbing all of this information with a calmness that startled even himself, added another notation to his mental list regarding “The Eye.” _Possible sex suff?_

“Thankfully, that era only lasted two months. Two months too long, in my opinion, but apparently a few years back Elias had recruited someone from Oxford. He’d been training at our sister institutions for the last five years-it seems Elias had been thinking of replacing Gertrude for quite a while.” _This Elias seems like a sketchy character,_ Martin added him to The List. “But Jon has really turned the place around. Just an absolute natural, he is. I’d never truly experienced a statement until his first service.” Sasha’s voice took on a reverent tone. “Attendance is up, and Avatars travel from really far just to hear him speak.”

“Sorry-avatars?”

“You could call them senior members of their respective churches, I suppose.” Sasha clarified. “With all the Powers and Gifts that come with that.” Powers. Right. “And he’s pretty sensitive to the needs of the congregation. He always announces the Statement beforehand, what power it deals with, any heavy topics that are going to be discussed. Gertrude was never that intuitive.”

“Plus he’s hot.”

“Tim!”

“What, it’s true!” Tim turned to face Martin head on. “Look, you be the judge of it. I know you’ll agree. You seem like a man of taste. Come to Services on Sunday and see for yourself.”

Martin immediately shook his head. He was _not_ getting involved in this. He had been hired to file, not worship. “No thank you. Absolutely not.”

“Oh come on, it’ll be fun!”

“Sounds like the opposite.”

“Fun isn’t the right word for it.” Sasha agreed. ‘But I do think you should come. Just to see what it’s all about. You may be a file clerk, but you should look into what your Serving, right?”

“I’m sorry, this is way above my pay grade. And I have a _low_ pay grade.” He moved to stand up, grabbing his coat. “It’s just too much. It’s my first week, and now you’re trying to get me to serve some ‘almighty eye in the sky’ like a suicidal lunatic? Who worships _fear_? I don’t get it. Truly, I don’t.”

Sasha hurried to stand up with him. “I’m sorry, I know this is a lot. We’ve given you a lot of information and you’ve had no time to digest it. But just think about it, maybe?”

Martin let out a humorless laugh. “Why? Why are you all...like this?” He gestured to the air nonsensically. “What do you get out of this?”

“It’s a bit hard to explain…” Tim began.

“Not for me.” Sasha quickly cut him off. “Look, it may seem antithetical to everything you’ve been brought up with. I get it, most religions preach love and acceptance and the promises of heaven and all of that jazz. But it's two sides of the same coin, y’know?” She threw her hands into the air. “We may seem crazy to you, but we’re just logical. We’re driven by a need to Know. And to do that, we can’t just focus on the nice aspects of life. We have to study the Fear. That’s what drives us. So we research it, we dedicate our lives to it, and every Sunday we experience it together and it’s scary and exhilarating and nerve-wracking, but it helps us make sense of the world as we live in it. Our place. How our fear fits into it.” With this, she smiled at him hesitantly, but sincerely. “It helps us know we’re not alone, Martin. And you’re not alone anymore.”

Tim, who had stood up at some point and made his way over to Sasha, threw an arm around her shoulder and smiled at her fondly. “Aw, Sash-who knew you were so sentimental? You should take this show on the road, door to door recruitment!”

Sasha laughed self-consciously. “Gods no, I’m not the _Spiral_. Anyway, we’ve been here too long and given Martin a lot to think about. Let’s head out.”

Martin followed along behind them silently, not trusting himself to speak. Tim and Sasha chattered ahead of him, arm in arm. 

“Hey, do you think we could expense out this lunch? We basically did HR’s work for them.”

“Good idea, I’ll ask Rosie. Consider it onboarding fees!”

* * *

He was solicitously dropped off at his door by Tim and Sasha, the latter of whom lingered in the doorway while Martin studiously ignored her. “I know this is a lot-” She started, but Martin cut her off. “More than a lot. I’d like to be left alone for a bit, if you don’t mind. Thanks.” 

She sighed, but waved a small Post-It in her hand and put it on his table. “Here’s my number if you need anything. Even if it’s just to yell that I’m a loon.” With that, she shut the door quietly behind her.

Martin promptly removed his jacket, balled it up, shoved his face into it, and screamed.

* * *

It seemed that no one had delivered any boxes of statements so far, and so Martin resolved himself to doing no work for the rest of the day. _I’ve served the Great Fucking Eye or whatever for long enough_. Instead, he sat on his desk, deliberately on top of the Post-It, and unlocked his phone. 

It was time to go to the second page of Google.

Tim was right, as it turned out. There was even a ‘Fear Wiki’ featuring helpful summaries of each dread power, their affiliations, and notable members. He bookmarked the link after a short perusal and moved on. There were Reddit pages dedicated to them, countless articles, hours of videos, and what seemed to be a large faction of Twitter users referred to as “Cult Twitter” and known for their affinity for starting serious fights and endless threads. He scrolled down again, seeing a link to a YouTube video entitled “Why I Left the Magnus Institute Pt 1 of 12.” In the thumbnail, a goth man pointed angrily at a messy whiteboard. He went to press play when a shrill ringing interrupted him.

Martin swiveled his head around in confusion before he landed on an ancient phone on the far wall. It had never rung before, but he made his way over quickly and hesitantly answered. “Hello?”

“Martin!” He recognized Jessica’s voice instantly. “Thank the Eye! I’ve been trying to reach you non-stop. Were you out to lunch? Wait, don’t answer that, no time!” She barely paused for breath before she continued. “You’ve probably noticed you’ve gotten no deliveries. Well, obviously, because you’ve had nothing to do. Unless you’re playing catch-up. You should really try to get everything done the day of, you know!” Martin clenched his jaw, fighting against hanging up the phone. “So our main researcher who handled the deliveries quit. Always sad to see someone go, especially to something as embarrassing as the Dark. But Steve made his choice, and we must move steadily on. All this to say, I need you to go down to the Archives and get the boxes. The Archivist is getting impatient, and I’d hate to leave him with all of that mess.”

Martin froze. He was not prepared to do anymore work for the day. He was also not physically, mentally, or spiritually ready to meet and talk to one more person, especially the mysterious Archivist. “Jessica, it’s almost the end of the day, can it wait til Monday? I won’t be able to file everything by five…”

“Well if you had noticed this earlier, you should’ve taken initiative and gotten the boxes yourself, silly! And no, it’s got to be done now. Sorry about that. If you come back down to the front desk and look to the right, you’ll see the entrance to the Archives. Thanks _so_ much!” She hung up before Martin could say a single word in defense.

“Ugh!” he screamed, kicking a nearby file cabinet. “Oh God…” He jumped up and down in penance of his mistake. Look, he didn’t really believe in any of this. This institute was obviously very deluded, and they preyed on unassuming people like him who just needed a job. None of this was real. 

That did not mean he wasn’t afraid of this so-called Archivist. 

_What did Sasha mention? Powers?_ Martin wondered to himself. On the small chance he did have weird supernatural powers, Martin was fucked. On the very large chance he was a man who _believed_ he had weird supernatural powers, Martin was also fucked. Well, two could play at delusion.

He straightened himself up, ignoring the twinge in his foot, and made his way to the break room to fix a nice, normal cup of tea to meet his nice, normal Eye Overlord. Just two coworkers, having a chat and helping each other out. Perfectly normal.

* * *

His hand shook as he made his way downstairs with his olive branch. He hadn’t noticed any door like this when he entered the building, but he wasn’t really paying close attention. As he made his way near the front desk, he turned to the right where a magnificent oak door labeled ‘Archives’ sat in plain view. 

Shaking his head at his obliviousness, he made to go to the door when a familiar voice barked out his name. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Martin stared at the ceiling and slowly turned around. “I’m sorry, I’m really not in the mood-”

“Leave him alone, Daisy.” An unfamiliar voice rang out.

Leaning on the front desk was a tall woman wearing a hijab and smiling indulgently at Daisy. How someone could look fondly at that madwoman was anyone’s guess. The remark did the trick, however, and Daisy rolled her eyes and waved him off. Huh.

Nodding his thanks to the woman, he turned around and walked over to the door, heaving it open with one hand to a magnificent, light-filled room.

_This_ _is what a temple looks like_ , Martin realized. Large windows bathed the dozen and dozens of tall bookshelves with a yellow, twilight-y haze. There were several desks piled with papers both old and new, though there didn’t seem to be anyone in the Archive. It smelled of parchment and fresh ink and dust and instantly Martin felt at home and relaxed and the whole effect was so breath-taking that he barely even noticed the echo of quick footfalls behind him and the weird mechanical purr that accompanied them until-

“You’re not Steve.”

Martin jumped half a foot in the air, grabbing at his chest and barely saving the cup of tea. He spun around to face the owner of the voice and couldn’t stop his gasp at the sight in front of him.

The man who spoke couldn’t be more than five and a half feet tall, and that was being generous. Martin expected a man that spoke with such authority to be much more intimidating, and not as slight as the person in front of him appeared to be. He had thick, dark hair threaded with silver that was messily gathered in a bun. But it was his dark eyes that were truly mesmerizing- hidden behind small, rectangular frames that seemed to gaze into his very soul, stripping him of all his pretenses, laying him bare. Martin had never monologued about a man like this in his life. Said man tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for an answer.

“No, I’m M-Martin!” He thrust the cup of tea forward and it threatened to spill over his fingers. “Tea!” _Smooth, Martin._

This irritated vision of loveliness furrowed his brow in confusion, but held out his hand anyway. However, he was still ten feet away, and made no move to grab it, so Martin had to walk forward and place it in his hands. The mysterious man immediately took three large gulps of the steaming liquid, like a monster. “I made it for the Archivist.” Martin added, pointlessly.

“I am Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.” He replied in the same sonorous voice as his eyes seem to flash. “This tea is for me.”

Martin paused, dumbfounded. This wasn’t some...assistant? He’d expected the Archivist to be at least forty, some sort of sexy professor with a cult-leader vibe. Jonathan _was_ dressed like a professor, in a white button-up and green sweater vest, but surely nothing a Priest of the Eye would wear. Not that he’d imagined anything like that. At all.

“You are Martin Blackwood. You’ve come to do Steve’s job, it would seem. I will not miss Steve.” He spoke plainly, as if these were well-known facts. Jonathan turned from Martin’s unblinking stare and gestured to a pile of boxes and a hand-truck. “This is for you to take- but not yet, of course.” 

“Of course.” Martin echoed faintly, still frozen in place as the man moved around him and bent over behind a desk. Martin did not look when he did this, no sir. Martin also made no move as the Archivist reappeared with a fire extinguisher and placed it gently in his hands. He had armed himself with a flashlight. “You will call me Jon. And now, we will check for worms.”

He turned primly on his heel and marched towards the back of the Archive. Martin hurried to follow, now noticing the weight of the object Jon had placed in his hands. _What the fuck_ , Martin wondered to himself, even as he calmly followed the man. They passed by a strange room which seemed to be overflowing with cassette tapes. Martin did not ask. Instead, he took this time to observe the stranger in front of him.He had a small bag slung across narrow shoulders, which seemed to be the source of the strange whirring he heard earlier. Once they reached the end of the Archive, Jon turned around and gestured to a darkened doorway with a set of stairs leading downward. As he did so, a small trinket gleamed around his neck- a delicate choker-like piece of jewelry at the center of which held a small eye. _Ah, there it is._

“I will hold the flashlight, but you must wield the extinguisher.” He said definitively. “After you.”

Martin shook his head, finally gathering his wits. Curse this tiny, strange man. “Wait- I’m sorry, you said worms?”

Jon fixed him with an impatient stare. “Yes, obviously.” His voice took on an irritated tone, which made him seem both more human and more intimidating. “Since last Sunday, there have been worms. I don’t want worms in my Archive. Steve would help me look for worms. Steve would kill the worms. Now that Steve is no longer here, that falls to you, Martin Blackwood.”

Not for the first time this week, Martin decided to just roll with the punches. “Alright then. Sure, yeah. Could you turn on the flashlight, though?” With this, Jon nodded and turned it on, pointing it down the stairs. He then looked back at Martin, waiting. Ah, yes. After him.

He slowly made his way down the creaking, unstable stairs, clutching the fire extinguisher to his chest. “Hang on- how do I use this?” He called back and received a prolonged “Shh!” for his troubles. Jon started to walk behind him, flashlight in hand. “Pull. Aim. Shoot. In theory. I’ve never used one.” _Ah, great_. He stopped at the bottom of the stairway, looking out at what seemed to be an almost exact replica of the floor above, without the airy light. “Is there a light anywhere-”

“Shhh!” Jon aggressively waved the flashlight up and down. “No. Steve made sure of that.” This was provided as an explanation. A few more steps later, and Jon had reached his level. He stood at his right and curled his arm around Martin’s, leaning into him. Martin’s brain short-circuited.

Jon was not having that. “Go!” The flashlight waved aggressively again.

Martin went. He did not comment on the small hand clutching at his arm, and did not point out that it would inhibit him from actually using the fire extinguisher. In theory. As he did not do these things, Jon began to speak in urgent, hushed tones. 

“I haven’t seen many, but we have to be vigilant. If they’re under your feet, crush!” With this, he stamped his foot. “But if there’s a lot, spray!” He waved the flashlight in demonstration. 

“Okay, okay.” They continued to make their way slowly down the aisle. From what he could see (which wasn’t much, as Jon kept pivoting the flashlight at imaginary sounds), there was nothing down there. He recalled the conversation he’d heard a few days ago. “So was there an infestation or something-”

“Shhh!!” The most aggressive one yet. So Jon could talk, but Martin couldn’t. Noted. “Jane Prentiss.” The name dripped with disgust. “In _my_ temple. Going into _my_ Archive. Not on my watch!”

They rounded a corner. “This is Elias’s fault, you see.” Martin couldn’t see a thing, but go on. “I don’t enjoy statements about Corruption. Who does? But _no_ , Jon we’ve got to _spice things up_. Pick a _sexier_ statement, Jon.” Martin sputtered at the word. Jon’s voice took on a less formal, less inhuman tone the angrier he got. 

“What does that even mean?” His voice rose, and Martin was almost tempted to shush him. “What’s a ‘sexy statement’? One with sex in it, I assumed. So of course, I pick Timothy Hodge’s.” Martin need Jon to stop saying sex. Now, preferably. They were making their way back around, no worms in sight.

“And who bursts through the doors, in the middle of my statement, but _Jane Prentiss._ ” Jon shuddered at the name. “Filthy woman. Full of worms. Getting them in my church. Everyone screaming and carrying on! Elias watching like the _useless ass_ he is!” At this he looked up to the ceiling, as if said man were about to propel down. Jon took a few breaths, gathering himself as they made their way back to the staircase. “Looks safe for now. Let’s go.” He made no move to disentangle himself from Martin’s side, however. Martin wasn’t sure he wanted him to, but he gave a helpful shake to remind him.

Jon let go as if he’d been burned and clamored up the stairs, Martin following behind him, staring at his feet. They re-entered the blissful light-filled Archive and made their way back up front silently. Martin gently set down the extinguisher as Jon made his way over to his long-abandoned tea, switching it out for his flashlight and gulping it down like a mad man. Noticing Martin’s eyes on him, he gestured violently to the boxed-up statements. Martin nodded and made his way over, awkwardly loading up the hand truck. In the silence, he heard the whirring again. Had that been going the whole time?

Jon had turned his back to him and was shuffling papers around on the desk in front of him. Martin turned the hand truck towards the door, pausing. Should he say goodbye? Would that disturb him? He was interrupted from his musings by the Archivist, who hadn’t turned around.

“This tea is good. You will bring it next time, Martin.”

“Of course.” He turned around and left the room.

* * *

Once he’d deposited his boxes (Daisy had helpfully pointed out an elevator that he quickly made use of), he made his way to the break room and sat down heavily in a chair. 

Making an executive decision, he took out the Post-It he’d pocketed, unlocked his phone, and began to compose a message.

_Hey Sasha, it’s Martin. Just wondering what time those services are on Sunday. Thanks!_

He clicked send.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being incredibly long, so sorry for the word-dump. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin attends services to See What The Fuss Is About.

What did one wear to an Eldritch Fear God Mass? Pinterest had several ideas, and Sasha unhelpfully provided “ _Whatever you like! <3” _

Martin decided to go with a soft, dark red sweater and a pair of dress pants. It was not unlike what he would wear to church as a child with his mother, back when they went semi-regularly. He’d had half a mind to call her up, let her know what he was doing (sans cult context), but these days she was inclined to criticize even what she approved of, so Martin thought it best to let her be. 

He arrived at the institute at 9:45, meeting with Sasha and Tim in front of the imposing doors. They were outfitted in almost exactly the same outfit- a light pink short-sleeve button up patterned with tiny pineapples, suspenders, a pair of tight black pants for Tim and a flared black skirt for Sasha. On each of their heads was a jaunty tweed cap. They both wore a pair of black Doc Martens. The whole effect was both mesmerizing and migraine-inducing.

“Um.” Martin greeted them politely.

“So glad you could make it!” Sasha grinned and gave him a little hug which he awkwardly tried to return. “Don’t mind the outfits- we like to go all out for brunch. Speaking of, you should join us afterwards!”

“Uh, maybe, yeah.” He replied. “Do we just go inside or-”

“Oh, they aren’t at the Institute,” Sasha waved her hand and took his arm, turning him to the right. “The church is attached-see that big steeple?”

Ah yes, the giant cathedral directly to the right of the institute. How could he have missed it?

They walked towards it at a leisurely pace, Tim unusually silent behind him. As if sensing the question, Sasha leaned in to whisper to Martin. “Don’t mind him. He always gets this way before a Stranger statement.”

Recalling Tim’s history, Martin asked in a similarly hushed tone, “Then why does he come to these?”

Apparently, they hadn’t spoken softly enough. Tim shoved his head between the two of them, looking Martin directly in the eye and pausing their progress. “Know this, Martin,” he started, in a deadly serious voice. “There will _always_ be a circus of mannequins who want to skin you. Best to be well-informed of their methods, I say.”

Sasha nodded along to the sage wisdom. Martin did not. “Hang on, nobody mentioned _skinning-_ ”

“And here we are!” Sasha trilled, leading him through the cathedral doors. Not unlike the Institute, it was an incredibly beautiful and ostentatious room, reminding him of something out of Paris or Italy (not that he’d ever traveled that far). People milled about in various states of dress both formal and informal, setting Martin at ease with his choice. Some of them he recognized as his coworkers, though they did not acknowledge him. Tim had broken off to talk to Daisy and her companion from the day before. Sasha moved forward, waving to various people and dragging Martin along with her.

The cathedral itself was enormous. There were at least twenty rows of pews, divided down the middle by a walkway covered in a dark red carpet. At the front was a large, green stained glass window in the design of an eye, through which light filtered and reflected on the marble pulpit in front of it. To the side was a small, rectangular box on top of an elaborate altar. Some sort of offering?

So wrapped up in his surroundings, Martin didn’t notice the font in front of him until he’d bumped into it fully. Luckily, it was made of marble and rooted into the floor. The last thing he needed was to destroy some precious artifact and cause the church-goers to descend upon him (or so he’d imagined they would).

The front itself was fairly unadorned, filled with water and interrupted only by the small green eye (of course) in the bottom of the pool. Martin’s hand unconsciously reached towards the water, years of religious training kicking in; Sasha slapped his hand before he could reach the water. “Don’t!” He was glad she stopped him before he did something ridiculous, like genuflecting in the doorway of an Eye Temple.

Sasha led him down to the one of the closer rows, much to his chagrin. Tim followed soon after, situating himself on the aisle. Several pamphlets were passed down as other church members took their seats. Martin opened it, curiously gazing at the small pictures of several different men and women provided inside. On the other page was a picture of a dark alley with the horrifying outline of a man barely visible. He quickly put it to the side. _No thank you._

The congregation quieted as the doors shut ( _Trapped!_ His mind helpfully supplied) and an elegant man in voluminous black robes stepped up to the pulpit. He was handsome, in a snake-oil salesman kind of way, with a sharp jaw and slicked-back graying hair. He smiled, looking out to the pews with a slow, purposeful gaze. “Elias,” Sasha whispered in his ear. “He’s the Watcher.” Add that to his list of things to look up- cult hierarchy. 

“Greetings,” he began. His voice was posh, low and irritating. Martin did not like him. “A good morning to our loyal patrons, and of course those just joining us for the first time.” With this, he looked directly at Martin. _Perfect._

“Today we have a special statement from our Archives- one pertaining to the Stranger.”

“ _I Do Not Know You.”_ The entire congregation muttered in one communal, low voice. Martin shivered.

“Since I’m sure everyone here is at the edge of your seats, I won’t hold you any longer.” He said this with a gracious smile and raised his eyes to some point above their pews. Martin instinctively knew he was the type that enjoyed a longer monologue. The Watcher raised his hands, and his voice echoed around the room.

“ _Under the Great Eye-”_

“- _Vigilo. Opperior. Audio!”_ the Latin phrase (which Martin recalled from the front doors of the institute) was said by all of the congregation. With that, Elias turned and retired to the side of the room, seated in an elegant green velvet chair trimmed in gold. 

And then Jon made his appearance. Martin let out a little noise, which Sasha unfortunately picked up on. She elbowed him with a quiet giggle.

The Archivist was clothed in robes of white, not unlike Elias’s in their volume and length, but trimmed in gold with various stitched designs that were too small for Martin to make out. The whole effect made him seem ethereal, bathed in the light from the stained glass above. He moved with the confidence born of being distinctly in one’s element. His hair was not in the bun Martin had seen, but cascading down his back in gleaming black waves. _Jesus Christ_ , Martin whimpered. _Or Great Fucking Eye, whatever._

Jon turned his back to the pews with a swish of his robes, moving only a few steps to a raised altar with the small black box. On closer inspection, it looked to be a...tape recorder? Jon raised his right hand almost reverently, and with one slim, elegant finger, pressed play. 

The familiar whirring that accompanied the man from the archives kicked in. _Does he carry a recorder around with him everywhere?_ Martin wondered, not for the first time, what the hell kind of operation they were running here. _Does he not know that phones are capable of recording now?_ The sound wasn’t irritating, however- the hum was almost pleasant. _Has a bit of a lo-fi charm, I suppose._

The captive audience certainly agreed. At the click of the recorder, almost in unison, the entire congregation seemed to lean forward, every eye focused on Jon as he smoothly turned around. He felt Sasha move beside him with a small intake of air, and even Tim’s stony face took on a searching gaze of supreme interest. Elias, who had been sitting primly in his seat since he’d finished the opening announcement, leaned his head back and closed his eyes in satisfaction. 

Trying to fit in, Martin slightly inclined forward. It was not a comfortable position.

“Statement of Nathan Watts, regarding an Encounter on Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh. Original statement given on the 22nd of April, 2012.”

Jon’s voice- which, in Martin’s limited experience, vacillated somewhere between incredible agitation and that poised, strange cadence- had once again changed into something very different. It held unmistakable authority, echoing off the high ceilings and landing somewhere right behind Martin’s ear, as if the Archivist were talking only to him. It was no louder than it needed to be, and had the quality of both invoking something great while possessing an earned intimacy to the listener. It uneased and soothed him in equal measure.

Jon continued. “Committed to Memory by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Witnessed by the Congregation of the Great Eye.” He paused, closing his eyes slowly and reopening them violently. To Martin’s shock, they’d turned an unnatural, bright green behind his glasses.

“Statement Begins.”

As he started, his eyes stayed forward, unblinking, as his voice took on a more casual, uncertain tone. Hesitant. He was slipping into an entirely different persona, and yet his body remained completely still. “ _This all happened a couple of years ago, so I apologize if some of the details are a bit off. I mean, I feel like I remember it clearly but sometimes things are so weird that you start to doubt yourself. Still, I suppose weird is kind of what you guys do, right?”_

“ _So I’m studying at the University of Edinburgh…”_ Something strange seemed to be happening. The more Martin tried to focus on that captivating voice, the more it started to slip away and fade into the background, a distant narration. His mind started to occupy that of another, details of a life not his own filling his mind. Biochemistry. Older students. A party. The taste of scotch on his lips. He’d overindulged. He felt ill.

At this point, he was aware that he was still sitting in that uncomfortable pew, still leaning forward, but he also wasn’t there at all. Not really. He was walking down a street on a dark, cool night - he didn’t need to tell you about the steep hills of Old Fishmarket Close. He took a spill, felt the throb of pain as he fixed himself up and felt the distinct craving for a cigarette, which he began to roll. 

“ _Can I have a cigarette?”_

The voice was startlingly flat. _I Do Not Know You._ That thought floated deep in the recesses of Martin’s mind, in a voice not his own nor the Statement Giver’s. The shrouded alley, the barely visible light and the sunken, swaying Stranger repeating his plea. _Anglerfish_. The same voice, again. Reaching for his phone, the stranger disappearing, staggering home. Returning to the spot- an unsmoked Marlboro Red. The pitying looks of his friends when he tried to explain. The disappearance of John Fellowes- a pack of Marlboro Reds sticking out of his pocket. The unmistakable itching need for a cigarette.

“Statement Ends.”

All at once, Martin was thrown back to the church, the uncomfortable pew, the congregation around him. He shook at the sensation, so foreign and yet - _What did Sasha call it? Exhilarating?_ The woman in question had leaned back in her seat, a satisfied but intense look in her eye. Tim was sighing, his hands on his thighs in a white-knuckled grip. “ _What in the-_ ”

He was immediately shushed by Sasha, who pointed ahead to the Archivist. He stood stock still,but his eyes had faded a bit, now a murky greenish-brown. His voice became thoughtful, head tilted to the side as he stared straight ahead.

“The Stranger always requires our utmost attention,” he began. “As we all know, it is the very opposing force of that which we serve, the Great Eye. It hinders knowledge, fools our mind with its uncanny wickedness and sickening ways. And yet-” his eyes flicked upwards, like Elias, to something Martin could not see. “-it has much to teach us. For how deeply can we Know ourselves without our opposite?”

Jon’s eyes resumed their straight, far-away gaze. “There were six disappearances we can attribute to the Stranger over that five year period near Old Fishmarket Close. Jessica McEwan, Sarah Baldwin, Daniel Rawlings, Ashley Dobson, Megan Shaw, and John Fellowes. Of course, we Know where several of these people are now.” He paused, considering his words. “Or, at least, where whatever occupies their shells currently resides. Elias has helpfully included their most recent pictures, for reference.” Martin recalled the pamphlet he’d been given at the beginning of the service. “As well as a snapshot taken by Ashley Dobson before her disappearance. If you see anything that resembles these creatures, I would walk the other way. And if you happen to find yourself at Old Fishmarket Close at night-” a little smile here “- try not to stop for a cigarette.”

The Archivist raised his arms and with the congregation intoned the parting words.

“ _Vigilo. Opperior. Audio._ ”

The tape recorder clicked off of its own volition. 

Martin took a gulp of air as the room began to fill with a low chatter. From somewhere far away he noticed that Jon had disappeared, and Elias had once again taken the pulpit and began to speak as Martin tried to control his breathing.

“-as Jessica stated in the last email, our monthly Donut Social will be held…”

Sasha had grabbed his arm, frowning at him in concern. “Martin, are you-

“I’ve got to get some air.” He stood abruptly and squeezed his way past the others, making for the door.

* * *

Once he’d made his way out of the front doors (helpfully being propped open by two attendants), Martin paced in front of the opening of a nearby alley, breathing heavily. _What the fuck?_ The strange itch of inhabiting Nathan Watt’s mind, his skin, still stuck to him like glue. _Can I have a cigarette?_ No, no, no. He shook his head, trying to clear the intrusive thoughts and voices. Yeah, the institute was _weird_ , but the idea that all of this delusion, this fear, might actually be true and not some sort of strange mass hallucination (which he still wasn’t ruling out) weighed heavily on his mind. 

And Jon. Strange, unsettling, magnetic, Voice of the Damned Jon.

Who did he think he was, hijacking all of those minds like that? Making them experience that shared terror of I Do Not Know You. _What the hell gave him the right,_ Martin steamed, _to anchor me to my seat? To let him whisper whatever he wants, no matter how terrible-_

Best to nip those thoughts in the bud. People were starting to mill out of the front doors, not far from him as his breathing slowed. Tim and Sasha exited the building, their heads swiveling as they tried to find him. Martin swore and ducked into the alleyway, needing a few more minutes to pull himself together. He turned around to find a figure twenty or so feet down the dim street. 

It was Jon. Still in full regalia, leaning wearily against the wall by a doorway which Martin assumed led back into the church. His hair had been tied back into a messy bun, a few locks escaping to obscure his face. And in his hand was a lit cigarette, emitting lazy ropes of smoke into the air. 

Martin paused, taking in the odd picture. That little smile - _try not to stop for a cigarette_. A strip of light hit in just the right way as he brought the cigarette to his lips for another drag and Martin was able to see the deep exhaustion in his face, but also a strange hint of defiance. The faded portrait of a young man, maybe still in college, stressed for a test or some new heartbreak- not with the weight of fourteen fears and a congregation on his narrow shoulders. Martin wanted to know that man, to take him out, to make him laugh-

The Archivist looked up, a flicker of recognition in his eyes as he met his gaze full on. Like a deer in headlights, Martin froze and his eyes widened to be on the receiving edge of such a direct, knowing stare. His mouth began to open, to give some sort of acknowledgment or greeting, but was interrupted by the creaking of the door next to the Archivist. An oddly long arm (was it _shiny?_ ) reached out of the opening, grabbing on to Jon’s arm as it croaked in a grating voice just out of earshot. Jon rolled his eyes, dropping his cigarette and grinding it with the tip of his shoe. With nary a glance back at Martin, he quickly stepped back inside. The door shut.

A heavy arm slung around his shoulders, startling Martin out of his reverie. “There you are, buddy!” Tim said genially. “I think _somebody_ needs a drink!”

______

Martin had several drinks. You could say he overindulged.

“I just don’t get it, y’know?” he sort of bellowed across the table to his new acquaintance. Basira, he’d learned, was both Daisy’s girlfriend and one of the best field researchers at the institute. She was often gone for long periods of time, looking into their more challenging leads. “Like, why don’t you guys try to stop this stuff from happening? People _disappeared_.”

“People come to us after the fact. That’s what a statement is- something already experienced.” Sasha reasoned, sloshing her mimosa around while Tim artfully dodged the droplets. “We aren’t the spooky fear police. We just study it.”

“We do look into the more dangerous rumors, though,” Basira added. “Like all that shit with the dinky “Dark Sun” or whatever they were calling it. I’ll never go on another ship, terrible time. Would _not_ recommend.” Daisy slung an arm over her shoulder in comfort and shrugged. “Horrible things happen every day, Blackwood. Can’t control it.”

Martin shook his head, his glasses almost falling off in his vehemence. “But that doesn’t mean you should go around worshiping it. That’s like...majorly fucked.”

“Oh shit, it’s fucked up?” Tim sarcastically replied. “I didn’t realize- thanks for telling me!” Sasha snorted beside him, burying her head in his arm. “If it makes you feel any better, think of it like listening to a true crime podcast, yeah? Forensic Files for the Fucked Up and Paranormal.” 

“I don’t say my evening prayers to Jack the Ripper or Ted Bundy, though.”

“He’s got a point.” Daisy nodded in his direction. Martin is unsure how he got in her good graces, but he preened in the acknowledgment.

“Then why did you come, anyway?” Basira shot back bluntly, eyeing him thoughtfully.

Sasha gave another snort and broke into a drunken, sing-song voice. “Actually, I _may_ have an idea about that…”

  
 _Absolutely not._ Martin aggressively sliced into his eggs Benedict, spraying yolk expertly in Sasha’s direction. “Basira- tell me more about this “Dark Sun” you mentioned…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of y'all were never forced to go to a donut social after mass and it shows.
> 
> I like to think of Elias and HR like the shitty management I had at a job- whenever they overworked us or forced us to do things, they bought us a pizza as a half-hearted apology. So that's Elias's first response to a Worm Lady Attack.
> 
> Let me know how you liked it ! Would love to hear your thoughts on where it's going.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin works the ol' nine to five.

Martin dragged his feet to the doors of the institute, a steady, throbbing pounding behind his bleary eyes. _I will never let Sasha talk me into bottomless mimosas again,_ Martin lied to himself. Reaching the top, he leaned his head back to study the words he’d heard yesterday and had apparently been seeing every day for the past week without context. In a drunken frenzy the night before, he’d plugged it into Google Translate to learn that it roughly meant _I Listen. I Watch. I Wait._

“Not at all foreboding! Perfectly normal!” Martin muttered to himself, opening the doors anyway. He’d been so wrapped in the monotony of his filing in that cold, dark room that he’d started to ignore the giant red flags that littered his place of work. _Stupid, stupid man._

And yet here he was, reporting for duty.

How could he not? He could tell himself he needed the money (which he did) and it was a fairly easy job with no oversight so even _Martin_ couldn’t mess it up, could he? Those were simple, go to excuses that were perfectly valid.

But to be a part of something bigger than himself, something almost unfathomable, was darkly enticing. Overwhelming and terrifying, to be sure. Morally gray ( _completely unethical)_ , absolutely. 

But he’d never really taken a risk in his life. Besides the obvious lies on his CV, Martin had been content to just survive, getting from day to day with a mechanical grace that had become routine. And now, for the first time, he was on his own; no overbearing, constant criticism from his mother. No one to go back home to or take care of. 

But here- here was a _community_. Dedicated to an entity of fear and definitely a cult, but everyone he’d interacted with so far seemed shockingly normal and even friendly. Sasha and Tim had taken him into their little group, made him feel okay (after the initial shock) and had even seemed concerned about him. They weren’t embarrassed of his lack of knowledge, they didn’t brush him off or ignore him. They teased him fondly, introduced him to others. Martin thinks, for the first time, he might actually have friends. He didn’t want to screw this up. 

And Jon- an inscrutable presence that loomed over everything. Not that the real man could do much looming himself, at that height.

So lost in his thoughts, Martin jumped at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Blackwood.” She nodded in his direction. A nod! That was new. He tried to return it, but just ended up awkwardly twitching his head to the right as if seized by a neck spasm. He headed towards the staircase, resolutely ignoring the door to the left. The Archives.

He arrived at his little room and sighed in displeasure. He’d completely forgotten the boxes he’d brought up on Friday and had yet to unpack. He’d need some tea for this. He made his way over to the break room, blissfully empty, and set to work.

“Oh Martin!” chirped a familiar voice. Sasha. As he turned around she smiled at him in greeting and walked over. Her eyes were bleary, most likely feeling the same effects of yesterday as Martin. “I was just heading over to storage, but I’m glad I caught you. Do you have a moment?”

“Uh, sure. Y-yeah, let me turn this off.” He flipped the stove top to zero and placed his mug back on the shelf, studiously avoiding the eyes he knew were there. “What did you need?”

She smiled and raised a beckoning hand. “Follow me and you’ll see!”

So Martin followed.

Sasha was heading straight towards the library he’d yet to explore. “Wait- am I allowed in here?”

“Of course!” she replied, confused. “You’ve got the lanyard and everything.”

That he did. Sasha led him through the doors and turned left, away from the main desk. The library looked like something out of the nineteenth century, all tall shelves and leather bound books. There was a second level to it, shelves bordering the walls and slim aisle in front for movement. Iron spiral staircases twisted up in every corner.The light was a bit dimmer in here, with small lamps at every desk and study carrel. It was early enough that only a few people were sleepily milling about, and Martin was glad for the relative anonymity it provided him.

Sasha paused at a fairly empty desk in the far right corner of the room, bordered by three others which must have been occupied judging by their various knick-knacks and decor. “Ta da! Your very own research desk.”

Martin blanked. “I’m sorry, what? I’m not-”

“Yes, I know you’re not actually a researcher.” Sasha replied patiently. “But, with all the information we’ve laid on you the past couple of days, I figured you’d like to explore a bit, maybe on your own? You don’t have to, of course,” -at this she waved her hands nervously- “But I thought it might be helpful to get a better rundown on things, from published scholars.”

She pointed to a stack of three books which she’d placed to the left of the desk. A fairly basic laptop sat beside it. “I pulled some comprehensive guides- nothing too esoteric or difficult, but feel free to ask me any questions! And I got a loaner laptop from IT that you can use while you're here.” 

Martin could’ve teared up at the display in front of him. All this trouble, just for a measly file clerk who’d spent most of his time discounting their beliefs and arguing with them. Nobody had ever bothered, but Sasha must have spent some time coming in early to set all of this up, just for him. And she looked at him so hopefully, eager to see his response.

“Thank you,” he said, with a gravity he wasn’t expecting. “You didn’t have to do this, but I really appreciate all of the effort you must have taken. It’s just, I don’t want to take up room that someone else may need-”

She waved her hand dismissively. “No trouble at all! This was Steve’s desk, and now that he’s gone it’s 'free real estate!' as the kids say. Plus, you’re next to Tim and I! I just figured-well, your job, it’s...not exactly,” she paused, trying not to offend. “Well, it must get boring sometimes! So I thought you could take a break sometimes and learn a bit more, if you like.”

“No, this is- it’s great. And yeah, I could use the distraction.” He chuckled self-consciously. “I might actually look at some of this now, if that’s alright? I don’t really have a lot of work for the day.” The boxes sat in the storage room, heavy and accusing.

Sasha clapped her hands happily in response. “Go right ahead! I’m so pleased you’ll be here with us.”

Smiling back, Martin sunk into the seat and turned his eyes to the books in front of him. He went to turn the switch on the lamp, only to find the lamp had no light bulb inside. 

“Oh, that’s Steve’s- never mind, I’ll get you an extra from the front desk.” Sasha twirled around headed back to the front. 

Martin leaned back in the chair, smiling softly as he surveyed the desk in front of him. _Maybe this is what it would have felt like in college,_ he ruminated. _Studying with friends, late nights. Company._

A small mug that he hadn’t noticed before was tucked in the back corner, behind the laptop. He pulled it out- a picture of an eye, followed by a heart, and the letter “U.”

He put it back in the corner, and turned it so the eye faced the wall of the study carrel. 

* * *

So engrossed in _A Comprehensive Guide to Smirke’s Fourteen_ , Martin barely noticed when other researchers filed in. Tim slapped a hand on his shoulder in greeting, and had been wiggling his eyebrows suggestively every time Martin raised his gaze over the wall of the desk. It was both annoying and endearing. He’d also started taking notes on the laptop, making bullet points under each entity. The book was utterly fascinating and completely bonkers. He loved every page he read.

About a third of the way through, his cell phone went off, a shrill ringing which caused every eye to swivel his way. Martin turned red and leapt from his seat, rushing out the doors with a “Sorry!” in no particular direction. As he reached the hallway, he pulled his phone out and frowned at the unknown number. Nobody really ever called him, unless it was his mother or the home where she resided. _Strange._ He answered anyway.

“Martin Blackwood.” A familiar, melodious voice droned before he could get a word out. 

“...Jon?” he replied hesitantly. “How did you get this number?”

Complete silence greeted him on the other line. It dawned on him that not only was that a stupid question, but he’d completely forgotten the new job he’d been given as of Friday - collecting the statements from the Archive. “Oh God, I’m so sorry- I’ll be down right away!”

The line went dead. Muttering a few swears, Martin made his way to the staircase before pausing at the top.

“Tea, right.” he decided. As best an apology as he could make.

* * *

  
  


Preparing himself mentally for a reprimand, Martin tip-toed into the Archive as best he could, pushing the heavy door and balancing a tea in the other hand. And there he was- perched on top of a desk, arms crossed. Out of the robes, Jon looked much more diminished but no less intimidating- the pointed glare aimed at Martin made that clear. He put one hand out impatiently.

Ah, yes. The tea. He scurried over, placing it directly into his waiting hand and began to ramble. “I really am sorry- I just lost track of time, I was reading-”

“ _A_ _Comprehensive_ _Guide to Smirke’s Fourteen_. Informative, if a bit reductive.” This was said drily and followed by three gulps of tea. He waved his hand imperiously towards the boxes in the corner. “Once you take those up, I need you to come back down. With light bulbs. For the basement.”

Martin nodded readily, trying to make amends. “Okay, how many do you need?” Jon’s eyes took on a far away look, and the haunting green from Sunday returned and disappeared, quick as a flash. “One hundred and two. You will need the hand truck.”

“Erm, alright. Do we-do we have that many? Should we call Jessica, or something?”

He was met with a blank stare. “Who is Jessica?”

_What?_ “The HR rep, of course.” he replied, incredulously. “Pretty sure you’ve called her before. Aren’t you supposed to be,” Martin paused here, “all-Knowing, or something?”

Jon leveled a stare, and seemed to turn slightly red (that might have been in Martin’s head, though). “Sometimes, the Eye spares me from knowledge that is irrelevant to my interests. This... ‘ _Jessica_ ’ is not relevant.” 

“Alright, okay.” He conceded, not willing to start an argument. “I’ll just take these away and come back down in a moment?” Jon had already turned away. Martin sighed, and got to work loading the boxes.

As he made his way to the elevator, he was struck by the thought that Jon had Known his full name on meeting him, despite Martin only giving his first. _He probably read your lanyard, idiot. You’re not special._ And yet, he couldn’t stop the smile that formed on his face.

* * *

  
  


Martin returned to the Archive about twenty minutes later, loaded down with light bulbs. Jessica had pointed him to one out of several doors. This one was simply marked “Dark” and the inside was packed with light bulbs, flashlights, batteries, and what seemed to be road flares. “Always best to be prepared!” she had chirped behind him, leaving him to sort through the equipment on his own.

The door had been propped open for him, a kindness he wasn’t expecting. Jon was again sitting on the desk, a flashlight in one hand and the fire extinguisher to his right. “This first.” he announced, hopping down and walking in the direction of the basement door. Martin grabbed the extinguisher and hurried after him. He didn’t look forward to this little inspection- trying to find worms in a dark basement was not his idea of a good time. But he couldn’t help the little thrill of anticipation that ran down his spine at the thought of Jon pressed to his side, growing more animated with each word that spilled from his lips. _Not the time, Blackwood._

They repeated the movements of the ritual, Martin clutching the extinguisher to his chest as Jon grabbed his arm, waving the flashlight around with a startling ferocity. He made no attempt at conversation this time (the whirring of his ever-present tape recorder provided ambient sound), simply muttering a “ha!” or a “there!” when he thought he saw something. These ‘somethings’ were all balls of dust, but Jon retained his enthusiasm until they reached the top of the staircase again. 

Jon drifted away to the side, moving the flashlight to one hand and walking towards a small ladder which leaned against the doors. “Go get the light bulbs.” He hoisted the ladder under his arm not without some difficulty. “Please.” 

Martin hopped to his task, the small “please” echoing in his mind on repeat as he rolled the boxes of light bulbs over. He winced at the sounds resonating from the staircase, a pointed screech as Jon dragged the ladder down every step. _Should’ve gotten that for him._ He made his way down the stairs with one of the boxes, and noticed with some alarm that Jon was teetering on the top step of the ladder, one hand pointing the flashlight at the bulb as the other reached, unsuccessfully, to unscrew it.

“Get down!” Martin commanded, which seemed to shock them both- unfortunately for Jon, this meant he overbalanced on the top step and started to fall backwards. Martin sprung into action, dropping the box and grabbing at Jon’s back, righting him on the step. 

They both froze, Jon’s back going rigid under Martin’s hands. _His sweater is so soft_ , Martin thought as he held on- too long. The Archivist coughed lightly, and Martin withdrew his hands as if he’d been burned. “S-sorry, it’s just- you can’t reach, so you shouldn’t-”

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon bit out as he climbed down the ladder. He kicked the box of lights several times with his feet until it had reached the base of the ladder. “I will hand them to you and you will put them in. We will move down accordingly. This will work better.”

“Mhm!” Martin squeaked, unable to form words. He climbed to the top of the ladder and they did just as Jon said, slowly and silently lighting the basement, one bulb at a time. Soon they had enough light for Jon to turn off the flashlight and simply hand the light bulbs back and forth to Martin, the tape recorder in his bag whirring along. 

Martin cleared his throat, gaining enough courage to begin speaking. “That- that tape recorder, what is it for?” Jon looked at him, puzzled, patting the bag as if he’d forgotten he’d been carrying it. 

“This is my tape recorder. It is for the Eye, but also for me. It makes a record of important-” a pause “of things. For me.”

“A sort of analog archive, then?”

“Yes. Yes, precisely.” He reached up as Martin handed him down a dead bulb.

“Why not use a phone then? Digital’s probably easier, you know.”

“Digital is _shit_!” The ferocity of the response surprised Martin, and he paused, waiting for Jon to elaborate. He did not. 

“Alright, then.” They moved on to the end of the aisle. Martin didn’t particularly want to anger Jon, but the man must have had more answers to the mystery of the institute than anyone else. _And his voice sounds nice._ Another thought Martin ignored. He ventured to speak again.

“I was looking for more information on the institute,” he began as lightly as possible, knowing the topic may start a fight. “And I found this video series- don’t know who it’s by, to be honest, but it was called _Why I Left the Magnus Institute-_ ”

“Gerard Keay!” A smile broke onto Jon’s face. Not like the one from the sermon, which was a snarky, snide little thing. But an actual smile which lit up his whole countenance. Martin wanted to keep that smile on his face for as long as possible. _Forever, even-_

Jon interrupted his sappy musings, his voice taking on a tone of fondness. “Gerry is my friend, I think.” The smile dimmed a bit. _Damn._ However, Gerry had seemed anything but friendly in those videos, if the thumbnail was anything to go by. 

“Really? He doesn’t seem too fond of the institute…” he said this cautiously, not wanting to upset the man and dampen his grin any further. 

“Those videos are actually very informative,” Jon took on an academic tone, as if preparing for a lecture. “Especially if you’re interested in the so-called ‘Gertrude Years’ of the institute. I watched the whole series myself. He makes some valid points, and I’ve tried to make some changes accordingly.” He frowned. “Admittedly, it’s very slow going, but I’ve got years of bureaucracy to fight through.” Jon considered the question again, staring at the dud light bulb and turning it over in his hands in an anxious gesture that Martin wanted to calm. “Gerry now works as a sort-of ‘independent contractor,’ if you will. Mostly interacts with me and helps me with...books. Sometimes he takes me to eat. He tells me when I should be mad about things, especially in regard to Elias.”

Jon looked back up at Martin, his eyes wide and questioning. “That’s what friends do, right?”

The question broke his heart, and Martin realized he had no idea what friends did either.

“Yes, Jon,” he replied anyway. “That’s what friends do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin is branching out! Making friends! And has a fairly good day, for once. 
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much appreciated and make my day! Thank you for reading.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin takes initiative. Jon has some cake.

After Martin’s quick turn as the resident carpenter/janitorial staff of the institute, the two following days followed in a slog of routine. He hadn’t spent much time in the library, his guilty conscience kept returning to the unopened stacks of statements in the storage room that demanded his attention. This time, however, he took care to read the derogatory comments that bordered each tale- now that he knew the owner of that elegant script. Like his small but vicious outbursts in the Archives implied, Jon could have a pretty foul tongue when faced with falsehoods and “ridiculous tomfoolery” (his words, not Martin’s.) 

When he went down to pick up the statements and bring Jon his daily tea, said man was not perched on a desk or tapping his foot impatiently by the boxes. Martin ignored the pang that went through his chest and placed the mug on the nearest table. He considered calling out for him, but the atmosphere in the Archives did not seem as ...friendly, or magical as usual. The dim clouds outside provided much less light to the stacks than previous days, and the pitter patter of rain which Martin usually found comforting seemed almost heavy.  _ Best to leave him be. _

He turned to leave, freshly burdened with three new boxes, when he heard it. A low hum filled the Archives- soft enough that it did not echo, but strong in a way that curled around his ears, a steady background noise both unearthly and strangely inviting. It seemed to be made up of four different tones, but they blended together so perfectly it was almost impossible to pick out an individual tone. As he listened closer, however, he could have sworn one of them was Jon’s.

Suppressing a shiver, Martin quickly made his way back to the safety of his storage room.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Been pretty busy, eh?” Martin started at the booming sound of Tim’s voice in the small break room. Tim was a man of many talents, he was learning, but volume control was rarely one of them. “Haven’t seen you in the library at all!”

Martin hummed noncommittally, stirring sugar in his tea as Tim reached in front of him to grab a mug from the cabinet. He made his way across the room, plopping down in a wooden chair by the table. “I think I’ve been neglecting my actual job.” This was said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Those statements really start to pile up if I’m not careful.”

“Marto, my boy- hate to be the one to tell you, but I don’t think your job is real.” Tim patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. “Best to collect that paycheck and do whatever the hell you want. Including spending more time with yours truly!”

“Yeah, I’m beginning to see that.” The past two days had passed in a similar fashion- no Jon, constant rain, and a hum in his ears that wouldn’t quit. “Still should make an effort, though.”

“I guess.” Tim shrugged, still puttering about in the cabinet. “Hey, do you know where all the mugs are? I swear we had like, five extras last time I checked. These  _ eyes  _ aren’t doing their job, it seems!” He punctuated this with a vicious stab to the googly eyes in the back of the cabinet.

_ Jon.  _ Martin stood up suddenly, banging into the table and causing the full mug of tea to spill over the edges with a splash. “Have mine. Just remembered I’ve got an errand to run!” With that, he marched out of the room, leaving a confused Tim to call out in his wake.

“Cheers, mate! Be seeing you.”

* * *

After three false starts and a small crisis of faith, Martin made his way down to the Archives, ignoring everything else in his path. He stood outside of the entrance, the oppressive, heavy air starting to seep into his bones.  _ Just do it, Blackwood.  _ Taking a deep, steadying breath, he pushed open the door and quickly shouted Jon’s name before he lost his nerve.

A concerning crash and a few curses greeted him in return. Jon tumbled out of that small room that housed his frankly startling tape collection, glasses askew and hair escaping from his bun in every which way. He was wearing the same sweater he’d donned on Monday, except considerably more wrinkled. His eyes were bleary and he carried the air of a man who hadn’t slept in a week. “M-Martin! What’s wrong?”

Martin rushed over, hands out in a placating gesture. “Sorry, sorry! Nothing’s wrong, I just.... _ wouldyouliketogogetteawithme? _ ” This came out as one garbled word which Jon did not understand, if his face was anything to go by. He had a hand on his chest as if to calm his heartbeat from Martin’s sudden intrusion. “I mean...would you like to go get tea, or coffee, or something...with me?”  _ That’s it, Martin. Enunciate. _

“Why?” Jon replied bluntly, as if the thought of leaving during work hours was foreign to him.

Martin sighed and ran a hand through his hair. _Because I think you're really cute and I'm kind of worried and also miss you._ Too strong. “I just...you’ve been cooped up in here all week, a-and I haven’t seen you and it’s just so... _ dark _ in here, y’know?” He knew that objectively this didn’t make a lick of sense, but he was hoping that Jon would take pity on him.

“Ah, yes. It is, isn’t it?” Martin blinked at the unexpected response. “I will...get tea with you, Martin. But give me a few moments to gather myself.”

Martin smiled brightly. “O-of course! I’ll just get these boxes up and go get my umbrella, yeah?” He turned without waiting for a response, nervous that Jon would change his mind. He quickly loaded the boxes and propped open the door, waving behind him. “Be seeing you!”

* * *

As Martin made his way back down, whistling lightly, he was surprised to find Jon already waiting at the front desk, speaking in low tones to Daisy. The sound of his footsteps caused them both to look up- Daisy with a smirk, and Jon with an oddly nervous look on his face.

Jon had put on a forest green peacoat that reached almost down to his knees. He had his usual satchel, and he’d pulled his hair into a neat, high ponytail with only a few strands escaping. Martin was, to say the least, affected. Jon also did not seem to be carrying an umbrella for the steady drizzle that had continued outside.  _ Oh god. _

“Have fun!” Daisy sent the two of them a mock salute, a knowing smile on her face. Martin studiously looked away and gestured awkwardly with his umbrella as he reached Jon’s side. “Well, shall we?”

Jon scooted closer to his side and took his arm tightly, not unlike he had in the basement. Martin had a minor brain aneurysm, but started to walk outside anyway. He fumbled with the umbrella, and once it opened he made sure it covered all of Jon and some of him. “I-It’s not far, just this little cafe I’ve been stopping by in the morning- they make a nice cuppa!”

“Is it as good as yours?” Jon turned his face up to his. This was said as a genuine inquiry, and not with any sort of flirtatious tone that the words implied. Martin blushed anyway and stammered in reply. “Uh, I suppose!”

Jon hummed critically in response, which sent Martin’s mind into another tailspin. It was at this time he noticed a figure gesticulating wildly across the street, and he looked to the left to find Tim and Sasha arm-in-arm, not unlike the two of them, and staring at him with wide eyes. Sasha was nodding and giving him an encouraging thumbs up, while Tim was thrusting his arms and pelvis in a crude gesture. Martin quickly averted his eyes to the ground and walked a bit faster, his companion stumbling to keep hold of him. They walked for the next few minutes in complete silence, the patter of the rain hitting his umbrella (and side, if he were being honest) the only sound accompanying them. 

“Here we are!” Martin said a bit too loudly, the bell on the door announcing their arrival brightly enough. Jon had yet to let go of his arm, so Martin led them in front of a menu and a glass case of pastries and other foods. “They have a pretty big menu, but I can definitely recommend their chai latte, if you like that…” He trailed off, noticing Jon was completely silent.

He was staring intently at a delicious-looking cheesecake, whose sign declared it to be  _ Raspberry White Chocolate Delight _ . He did not seem to blink, but Martin was used to this from Jon by now. 

“Do- do you want a piece of cake, Jon?” Martin asked hesitantly. Jon did not look like a cake man to him, but Martin wasn’t the best judge of character, as time had proven. The question seemed to knock Jon out of his trance, however, and he shook his head vehemently in response. “No, don’t be ridiculous. I’ll have that- that  _ chai _ thing. Yes, that.”

“Alright.” Martin conceded easily. They made their way over to the counter and Martin greeted the familiar-looking barista with a smile.

“Two chai lattes and a slice of that raspberry cheesecake, if you will!”

* * *

They sat in an isolated corner of the cafe- still brightly lit and cheery, but far enough from the chattering people that filled the store. Jon seemed utterly out of his element, sipping slowly on his tea (Martin had implored him to try tasting it, for a change) and staring moodily at the piece of cake in front of him. He had picked up his fork three or four times, but had yet to actually take a bite.

“It’s not poisoned, I swear.” Martin said mildly. Jon scoffed in reply but cut a dainty piece of the cake, putting it to his lips and taking a hesitant bite. His eyes widened comically, and Martin was afraid he was going to spit the bite out onto the table. Instead he watched as the man tore into the cake as if it were bound to disappear, and finished it off in a frankly concerning span of one and a half minutes.

“Good, then?” Martin’s voice hovered between worried and impressed.

“Quite.” Was the contended reply, a shy smile breaking out on his face as he grabbed his latte between his hands and gazed into it. Martin’s heart stuttered and he took a sip of his tea to calm himself down. 

They sat in what Martin hoped was companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping at their tea and avoiding each other’s eyes. As the silence lingered on and Martin realized Jon would not be initiating conversation, he decided to broach a topic that had lingered on his mind for the past week.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he began. “Why do you mark up the statements? I mean- they’re clearly false, in your opinion, so why not just...toss them aside?”

“Ah.” Jon continued to stare into his tea, a blush starting to form on his cheeks. “Elias suggested it, actually- as a ‘healthy’ way to channel my anger. His words, not mine.” His hands began to fidget. “Creates less of a mess than overturning boxes and sweeping everything off my desk- these apparently create a ‘hazardous working environment.’” He rolled his eyes and made use of air quotes to further his point. “Ridiculous man.”

“People don’t seem to like him very much, do they?” Martin was beginning to sense a pattern here.

Jon’s gaze sharpened, as it often did before he was about to say something devastating. “Elias Bouchard is a joke, and not one I find particularly funny.” With this, he raised his eyes upwards to the light fixture. It was then that Martin realized something very important.

“Is- is he  _ watching  _ us right now? Is that why they call him-”

“The Watcher? Yes.” Jon slammed his fist on the table. The cups clattered with the force of it, and several heads swiveled their way. “It is a skill of  _ zero practical use _ other than to invade others’ privacy and I would appreciate it if he  _ stopped now! _ ” Somehow, a weight that Martin was unaware of until this moment lightened from his shoulders, and Jon visibly relaxed.

“Sometimes,” he said in a calm tone, taking a sip of his tea. “He actually listens.”

* * *

The two of them slowly made their way back to the institute, resuming their positions under Martin’s umbrella. Jon’s hold on him had relaxed to a light grip and wasn’t nearly as tense as before. He had asked to leave after thirty minutes, citing a delivery that he was expecting. Martin acquiesced, surprised he had even been able to get Jon out of his Archive with his spur-of-the-moment plan. He resolved to try again tomorrow.  _ Would that be too soon? _

When they arrived inside, greeted by Daisy’s nod, Jon led him over to the Archives rather than let him go. “Stay there!” he had said in an authoritative tone, and disappeared into his small, messy office of tapes. Martin shifted awkwardly, unsure of what to do with his feet as he listened to the clatter of objects being strewn about by Jon.

“Here.” He emerged suddenly, thrusting a gift bag into his hand, not meeting his eyes. “Since you paid for the tea. And got me the cake.”

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“Take it!” Jon pushed the bag more insistently in his hands, letting go once he was sure he had a good grip. “Nikola dropped them off on Sunday, but I don’t want them. I think they’re quite expensive, knowing her taste.”

“Who is...” Martin trailed off as Jon turned on his heel and disappeared back into his office with a conclusive slam of the door. “...Nikola?”

* * *

He left the Archives, knowing a dismissal when he saw it. As he did so, he almost bumped into a tall, lean figure waiting immediately outside.  _ Elias. The Watcher. _

“Indeed.” The man himself replied, startling Martin. He smiled, tilting his head in a condescending manner that immediately irritated Martin. Elias smelled of something cold and salty, a cologne that put Martin even more on edge. He was beginning to understand Jon’s short temper with the man. “Did you enjoy your time with my Archivist?” Elias looked down at the bag in his hands and gave it a considering glance. 

“Uh, y-yes, but I-” He stammered, suddenly out of breath and incredibly anxious.

“Should be getting back to work? I agree.” Elias sent him an unfriendly smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Blackwood.”

From somewhere behind him, a door opened and closed with finality as Elias disappeared. In the man’s place he noticed Daisy staring at him, and if he didn’t know her he would think she seemed almost worried. 

* * *

  
  


So startled by the encounter, Martin didn’t check the gift until he was already back inside his apartment. He set the obnoxious red and white glitter bag on his counter, lamenting the mess he would have to clean up. In the bag were several skincare products, ranging from moisturizers to exfoliaters and other things he couldn’t name and would never buy himself. Was Jon trying to tell him something? Martin looked up their price on his phone and swore. A small, handwritten note was attached to the bag. 

_ To My Darling Archivist- Thank You For Such A Lovely Show! Be Back Soon. XOXO, Nikola. _

He shoved the bag under his bed, his mind too exhausted to parse what any of this meant. Tomorrow he’d ask his questions. Tomorrow he’d get his answers. He slid into his bed, burrowing under the covers and drifting off almost immediately.

And when Martin dreamed, he heard that same unnerving humming and felt the weight of his quilt settle like lead on his body. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tea time.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know how you like it. New chapters will probably come 1-2 times a week, now that I'm in the swing of things.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin Goes Through It.

When Martin awoke the next morning, he noticed the rain had not abated and was in fact coming down harder than it had in the past few days. The dim light stuttered through his apartment, barely filling the small studio with any light. _Friday_.

He yawned and dragged himself out of bed. The short walk to the dingy bathroom seemed to take minutes rather than seconds. He rubbed his bleary eyes and fixed himself with a discerning stare in the small mirror above his sink. _Huh. Does my skin look dry, maybe?_ Shrugging, he turned back to his room and pulled out the gift from yesterday. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got, Nikola.”

It _did_ smell good. And promised to give his skin an “ethereal glow.” So, there’s that.

On his way to the institute, Martin grabbed a cup of coffee and considered stopping at the Tesco’s nearby to grab another umbrella for Jon, since he didn’t seem to have one yesterday. However, he couldn’t help but remember the small hand gripping his arm and the man himself pressed into his side. _Shouldn’t presume he doesn’t have one, could be rude._

He decided not to take the extra stop.

  
  


* * *

  
  


He unpacked his things in the file room, taking a moment to sit in his uncomfortable chair and sip at his coffee. The rain today had made him especially slow and sleepy, as if he’d just swum through the morning in a haze. The piles and boxes surrounding him seemed especially oppressive today, an insurmountable task that Martin couldn’t even think of conquering. After twenty minutes (had it been that long?) of mentally lamenting his plight, he decided to spend an hour or two at his new desk in the library. He may not be able to change the weather or his mood, but he could change the room he moped in.

Tim and Sasha were already at their desks- Sasha furiously typing on her keyboard and Tim slumped in his chair, gently swaying to whatever was playing on his headphones. At his entrance, the both of them immediately perked up.

“What a day, eh?” Tim’s voice was, as per usual, shockingly loud. Martin took his seat and made a noise in agreement, not really in the mood for socialization. His new friends, however, were keen to converse.

Sasha had leaned her head on her arm, moving more into Martin’s space. Tim had propped his chin on the wall separating their desks. It did not look comfortable.

“Saw you the other day, didn’t we? Nasty rain, it was.” Sasha drawled, an easy smirk coming to her face. Martin wanted to take his hand and push her face away from his person (gently!), but one didn’t do that to one’s coworkers.

“Saw you had a little friend on your arm!” Tim piped in. “Thought I recognized him, but he looked a _bit different_ than I’m used to. Wouldn’t you agree, Sash?” 

“Yes, I noticed that! Could it have been our Archivist, _leaving the Archives during work hours_?”

An affronted gasp. “Oh _absolutely not_ , Sasha! You must have been mistaken. Elias would _never stand for_ -”

“Alright, alright!” Martin slammed the lid of his laptop closed with a concerning noise. It seemed like he would have to engage. He ran a frustrated hand through his curls. “It’s not that big of a deal, really. He seemed stressed, and I thought a bit of fresh air might do him good! That’s all. End of story.”

Sasha scoffed. “Oh, no other reason then? You didn’t want to, say, take a nice, romantic stroll in the rain? Arm-in-arm, all close together…”

“He didn’t have an umbrella!” Martin sputtered. “What was I supposed to do?”  
  


Tim widened his eyes and put a hand to his mouth. “ _There was only one umbrella, Sasha_!”

Sasha gasped. “Only one-!” 

“Shhhhhh!” Martin interrupted Sasha sharply, and in the process showered his desk with spittle. “This is a _library!_ ”

Tim erupted into giggles, ducking his head back down to his desk to muffle the noise. Sasha held both of her hands up in surrender, shaking her head and moving back to her desk. 

Martin buried his head in his arms, deciding instead to take a small nap and ask both God and the Great Eye what sins he’d committed in order to deserve such treatment. 

Neither answered.

* * *

At about eleven, after a failed attempt at introspection and an even worse try at reading, Martin decided to make his way down to the Archives to pick up his usual packages, and perhaps one more if all went to plan. _Will he go two days in a row?_ He distracted himself the entire way down, tripping twice and ignoring Daisy’s snort. _He might already be tired of you, y’know._

Martin had honed second-guessing himself into an art form. This was nothing new. But something about this place and his circumstances- his _crazy fucking circumstances_ \- made him reckless. Bolder. Like the power of the Eye was propelling him forward. Or something ( _someone_ ) was tugging him along on an invisible string. He’d never been one for meaningful connections, but he’d seemed to make a few in the span of days. Not normal ones, sure. But connections all the same.

The weight on Martin’s shoulders doubled down as soon as he walked into the Archives and he let out out an audible “oof” at the feeling. The usually sunlit hall was just as gloomy as the day before, perhaps even more so. The rain seemed even louder against the windows and despite the size of the room, Martin began to feel a bit claustrophobic. He started to call out to Jon when he noticed the man standing not ten feet in front of him.

Jon’s back was to him, and he seemed to sway gently as he stood. His hair was back to its usual messy state, but the man had at least managed to change his clothes, which were now a loose-fitting sweater and dark slacks. 

And that _humming_. Louder, yet still pitched low. It wasn’t coming from Jon, but further down the hall. Enthralling and deep. Martin dared not interrupt it, but Jon didn’t seem to have such qualms.

Martin hadn’t announced his presence but was addressed nonetheless. “Do you hear it, Martin?” Jon’s voice was dream-like and soft, but still cut through the haze. Martin felt an answer rise to his throat easily, unbidden.

“Yes, Jon. I do.”

Jon, no, _the Archivist_ turned at his reply. His eyes had that preternatural glow, not menacing, but not inviting either. He smiled gently, his eyes crinkling at the sides. It would be endearing, in any other scenario.

“Do you want to see, Martin?”

" _Yes_.” Another immediate reply. Jon lifted his hand, and Martin took it.

His hands were cold.

Jon led him slowly down the hallway, heading towards the staircase which housed the lower floor. The humming grew louder, hypnotic and mesmerizing. Martin wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, if he was in some sort of trance. His heart had slowed to a dull, sluggish beat in his chest.

They descended the staircase hand-in-hand, Jon leading for a change. As they reached the bottom, a single light in the center aisle illuminated the long, rectangular object of their destination. A coffin.

_“Look.”_ And Martin did.

It was a plain thing, unvarnished. A thick rope of chain encased it, a large iron padlock as well. _Is it keeping us out_ , Martin wondered, _or something in?_ The answer was carved in three inch letters on the lid.

_Do Not Open._

“What is it, Jon?” The words came from far away, as if Martin were still upstairs, calling down to him.

The Archivist began to speak in hushed, urgent tones. “The Buried. Or, as close to a pure incarnation of it as we have found.” His eyes closed, he took a deep breath. “I have the key. Not on me, but upstairs. I will not be going in, not yet. I’m not...strong enough.” He moved forward, kneeling at its base and placing a reverential hand on the lid. “But one day, perhaps.”

Martin stood, frozen in place. A scratching had started to come from the lid, as if in response to Jon’s words and movements. And that song, that _longing_ , seemed to reach a crescendo. Jon turned and tilted his head, fixing Martin with a heavy gaze.

“ _Are you scared, Martin?_ ”

These words had a dark weight to them, an odd static. A response was torn from his throat, demanded even.

_“Yes.”_

Martin hadn’t meant to say that. Martin hadn’t meant to say anything. He started to take in deep, gasping handfuls of air as if to clear whatever miasma had overtaken his throat and coated his vocal cords. The sounds startled Jon out of whatever trance he’d been in, and his eyes dimmed to their usual dark brown and widened, as if in shock. He stood up suddenly, almost tripping backwards onto the coffin and began to shake his head.

“I-I didn’t-” Jon stuttered out, upset in a way that Martin had never seen before. “I’m- I’m _so sorry,_ Martin.” He took a hesitant step forward, hand outstretched as if to touch him. Martin, unconsciously, stepped back. At this, Jon hung his head and rushed past him, shooting up the stairs at an incredible pace. Martin turned and did the same, both to follow the man and also get away from that _thing_ in the basement. 

“What-” His voice was still weak, he couldn’t seem to get his breathing under control. “What the _hell was that, Jon_? What did you do?”

The man paused in front of him, shoulders shaking. He seemed utterly diminished and exhausted from the experience, a totally different man than the one who greeted him a few minutes ago. He began to speak, but didn’t turn to face him.

“It happens, sometimes.” Jon’s voice was low and even-keeled, an almost dissociative calm to the tone. “The Knowing, the urge, i-it comes in waves. Like a tide. And when it wants Knowledge, it demands answers. _I_ demand answers.”

He turned around, his eyes glistening as he held back tears. Jon met his gaze, though it seemed to pain him. 

“I’ve tried _so hard_ , Martin. To control it around others, around _you._ But I don’t get to see people much, I don’t get to practice it. I get so caught up in the statements, and I can’t focus. It’s all too much, Martin, and I can’t control _anything_. Gerry tries to help, but he can’t understand. And _Elias_ -” he let out an unhappy laugh, “-Elias doesn’t even care that I do it. _Likes_ it, even though it doesn’t work well on him. Never has.”

Martin took a breath, dizzy with the sudden onslaught of information. “So you can- you can _force_ people to answer your questions? Is that what you do?”

“Yes,” Jon whispered. “It’s called compulsion. Every Archivist has been able to do it, Elias tells me. I just developed the ability faster than others. We weren’t expecting it to come so soon, but my training was a bit different. Ah, _accelerated_ , if you will. So it’s not surprising.”

“I didn’t like it.” Martin admitted. He didn’t want to upset him further, but he had to draw a boundary somewhere. Jon was a mystery he desperately wished to unravel, but not at the cost of his free will. The words that he’d forced out still echoed heavily in his mind. “I don’t want you to do that again. Please.”

“I know. I won’t.” Jon nodded his head emphatically, his glasses almost flying off his face at the motion. “I don’t mean to tell you all of this as- as some sort of excuse, I swear. I just want you to know that I’m trying to do better.” He drew himself up and straightened his shoulders. “I _will_ do better.” 

“I trust you.” Martin immediately responded. He hadn’t meant to say it, but it wasn’t like before. And he found he did, in fact, trust him. He didn’t know why, but he felt it, deep in his bones. 

“You will...forgive me.” Jon said softly. It wasn’t a statement, though it had the intonation of one. Martin recognized it for what it was- a request, an entreatment, a plea. And Martin pardoned him.

“Yes, Jon. I forgive you.”

He loaded up the boxes and left, Jon hovering in the corner of the archive, making no noise. There wouldn’t be time for tea today.

* * *

He spent the rest of his Friday, and most of his weekend, ruminating on the conversation. Jon was truly regretful, of course he knew that. But the sheer _power_ he wielded- it frightened him. Martin had been thrown into this crazy, horrifying world only two weeks ago and had just gone along for the ride. A ride that had just come to an unexpected and sputtering stop. He needed this job, but he also needed to survive with his sanity intact. Would he be able to do that, if he continued to work here? Continued to see Jon?

In the end, it wasn’t even a choice. Martin had never really known what was good for him, anyway. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


He met Sasha and Tim inside of the cathedral this time, the rain pounding the pavement outside and creating rivers of water that cascaded down the street. The two wore matching, bright yellow raincoats, ostentatious in the low light of the church. He guessed the clothes underneath were just as ridiculous.

They made their way to the same pew as before, Martin fidgeting the entire time. Tim seemed much more eager for this statement than last week’s, understandably so. “It’s the _Buried,_ Martin! One of my favorites. Kind of...cuddly, y’know?”

Sasha rolled her eyes and jabbed him with an elbow. “You’re insane. Though, I wouldn’t mind seeing the coffin in real life...how fascinating.”

“You do _not_ want to see it.” Martin said vehemently and the two turned to him in confusion. “It’s really horrible. And moan-y. And...scary.”

Sasha gaped at him, her eyes widening in shock. “Did you- did you get to _see_ it, Martin?” 

“Yeah. Wish I hadn’t.” He muttered back, turning to face the front as everyone began to take their seats.

Sasha seemed to gear up for a louder exclamation, but Tim shushed her with one hand, pointing with the other to Elias, who had now taken the pulpit.

Elias smiled at the now silent crowd, the same discomfiting and oily look that Martin had grown to despise. “Good morning, patrons.” The crowd greeted him back. Martin did not.

“Today we will be exploring one of our more fascinating objects- something I’m sure you’ve all come across in your many readings. I am, of course, referring to the coffin- that enchanting portal to the Buried.”

“ _Too Close I Cannot Breathe.”_ Martin found himself intoning the words in a low voice along with the rest of the congregation. 

“It’s one of our more, _unique_ statements, I’m sure you would agree.” The crowd tittered. “I’m not one to stifle our inherent curiosity, our pursuit of knowledge.” Elias paused, and seemed to look directly at Martin as he said the next words. “But it does show us the value- nay, the _salvation_ that can be granted when one looks away. When one _does not touch._ ”

He turned forward and smiled upwards, to that same unseen point above their heads. “Now, let us begin.”

_“Under the Great Eye- Vigilo. Opperior. Audio!_ ”

The room started to fade as Jon swept into view, the glittering form of his robes seeming to be the only light in the room. 

The tape recorder clicked and whirred to life. The audience leaned forward, Martin included.

“Statement of Joshua Gillespie, Regarding his Time in Possession of an Apparently Empty Wooden Casket. Original Statement Given on the 22nd of November, 1998. Committed to Memory by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Witnessed by the Congregation of the Great Eye.”

The Archivist awakened with a blink of his eyes. “Statement Begins.”

At once he was not hearing Jon, but the lighter, casual tones of Joshua Gillespie as he began to describe his holiday in Amsterdam. Thoroughly lost, and high to boot. Money exchanging hands, a strange promise to look after a package for a stranger. Bournemouth. Hulking delivery men, and _that coffin._ The temptation, the call, the _song. Scratch scratch scratch._ And the rain. That damned rain. 

But also resilience. _Do Not Look. Do Not See. Do Not Open._ A triumph, an impressed glance, a mission completed. A delivery van driving away. _Breekon & Hope. _He tries not to think about it too much.

“Statement Ends.”

And Martin was back in his seat. It was a visceral sensation, and he found himself breathing heavily along with the congregation. Everything in that statement had been familiar to him, had hit closer than the last. But for some reason, he wasn’t afraid. Martin lifted his eyes to see Jon staring straight at him, a hesitant smile on his face.

“I was born in Bournemouth, you know,” he began conversationally as everyone seemed to move in closer, entranced. “It’s always nice to hear that my hometown is not entirely devoid of odd occurrences and eerie stories.” Martin found himself chuckling lowly with the rest of the congregation, and Jon’s smile grew in size.

“The coffin- I had the honor of seeing it in person, thanks to our friends on the board. It’s hypnotizing- beautiful, even. But it is deadly, and we must not forget that. _Forever Deep Below Creation_ is not a place to be taken lightly. The knowledge we pursue is dangerous, and we must afford it the respect and awe and _distance_ it deserves.” He cleared his throat, and his next words came out as a clear warning. “Sometimes, you have to ignore that siren call and cling to what keeps you close to shore.”

Martin smiled. The recorder clicked off.

* * *

“I can’t believe _Martin_ got to see the coffin! And not _me_!” Sasha was drunk, again. Tim was dodging sprays of mimosa, again.

After Elias’s announcements, Martin had rushed out, eager to talk to Jon and catch him before anyone else. He was not in the alleyway from before, however. Only the stub of a still-lit cigarette greeted him. The rain had abated, and Martin ground the stub to ash, a sigh on his lips.

“Yeah Martin, how did you manage that?” Basira questioned. She had accompanied them to brunch as well, this time without Daisy. Martin found he missed her presence. 

“That’s because Martin’s shagging our Archivist!” Tim crowed, knocking back a screwdriver like his life was on the line. “I mean, two weeks in, and he’s already landed our high priest! Talk about _game_.”

“Ugh, don’t be _gross_ , Tim!” Sasha smacked him on the back, causing him to choke. “Besides, I have it on good authority he doesn’t do that. Show some respect!”

“So sorry, oh blessed one!” Tim lifted his eyes upward and put his hands together in prayer, the very picture of piety. Basira and Sasha burst into laughter.

“I’m just getting to know him!” Martin defended. “I have to work directly with him, and you guys don’t. I just...feel sorry for him, sometimes.”

The ribbing continued, but Martin wasn’t listening. Sasha’s words echoed in his ears.

_He doesn’t do that._

Damn.

* * *

  
  


Martin unlocked his phone, the bright screen illuminating the pale pink goop he’d slathered on his face, again courtesy of Nikola. _Would it be rude to send a thank you note for a re-gift?_ He opened his browser.

' _Sexy eye cult celibate?_ ' Martin began to type and then hurriedly backspaced. Best to be specific.

' _Can eye priests have sex_ ,' he revised, and clicked enter.

The first page had no useful information, unsurprisingly. So he moved on to the second.

A Reddit AMA entitled “ _I Am a Messiah of the Desolation and I Fucked an Archivist. Ask Me Anything!”_

_Fuck’s sake_. Martin began to read.

He skipped over the more salacious parts (almost everything), but even from a cursory glance Martin could tell that Gertrude didn’t seem to care about having a relationship or breaking any rules. But he couldn’t exactly go by Gertrude’s example- she had, after all, left the church with quite a bang. Maybe because of her transgressions? What was Sasha’s “good authority,” anyway? Some sort of bible or code he wasn’t privy to? What did she _mean_?

He couldn’t ask without giving himself away, and he certainly wasn’t at a level with Jon to start asking that intimate of a question.

What is the meaning of life? Sure. Why do you worship an entity that feeds on fear? No problem.

But “hey, just wondering if you’re allowed to fuck, oh blessed one?” was a no go, for obvious reasons. Would have to word it better, of course. And maybe get to know him a bit better, too.

Definitely the latter. Maybe it would come up organically? Down the line? Ever? _Fuck._

His phone timer went off, and he made his way to the bathroom to wash his face.

The package had promised a “poreless, silky look,” after all. _Let’s see if it delivers!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End scene! Martin and Jon are my favorite idiots. This chapter had a bit more angst than I was expecting, but it happens to the best of us! Wanted to get this one out on Sunday to keep it 'on theme.'
> 
> ADHD rules both Jon and me. Can't help it! 
> 
> I've mapped this out to be about 15 chapters, give or take. But don't hold me to it.
> 
> Let me know how you liked!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin encounters a Road Block.

Monday’s dawn broke bright and hazy across Martin’s apartment floor, a welcome respite from the heavy rain of the last week. A good night’s sleep had leveled his moodiness and he got ready for work with a hop in his step and a hum on his lips. _Today’s going to be a great day!_

He rode this new wave of positive thinking all the way to the door of the storage room. The door slid open easily, which should have been his first warning.

This could _not_ be his workspace. 

Tall, immaculate file cabinets gleamed neatly in four rows in the center of the room. His previous piles were gone, and the yet-to-be-filed boxes were tucked into the corner, waiting to be opened. Facing the corner, and directly one of the most unnerving eyes etched into the wall, was an impressive dark-wood desk with a notepad and small light, not unlike the ones in the library. The phone to the side had been replaced with a newer model, the floors swept, the lights replaced, and the whole room smelled of disinfectant and shiny new equipment. All in all, it was sterile and terrifying. Martin did a double take, but this was indeed his usual room. _I mean, I_ was _due for an upgrade._

“ _Good morning, acolytes!”_

The sound was jarring and Martin almost jumped out of his skin. It’s seemed to be coming from the ceiling- a speaker he’d never noticed before. 

_“As we begin another week Under the Great Eye, I’d like to take some time to acknowledge the Library Staff’s excellent contribution to…”_

The voice was smooth and cool, feminine and authoritative without coming off as snobby. It was not unlike the voice used for a recorded phone menu or a train station. Still, it made Martin uneasy until he remembered Tim’s statements from two weeks ago. 

“ _The announcements every morning and evening?_ ‘Under the Great Eye’ _?_ ”

That would be the announcements, then.

He made his way over to the desk, which now had a cushy desk chair with back support. _Nice!_ He spotted a small, folded piece of paper in the corner of his desk which he hadn’t initially noticed, and opened it.

_Mr. Blackwood:_

_It’s come to my attention that your working facilities are less than ideal. I hope you’ll find this to be a suitable upgrade- please let Rosie know if you are lacking in any supplies or resources. You will no longer need to rely on our Library Staff for any working materials. If you have any requests for further reading or inquiries, please make them through Rosie and she’ll be happy to assist you. Again, deepest apologies for the oversight._

_Yours,_

_E. Bouchard, the Watcher_

An elegant eye had been doodled by the signature. _Did he draw that himself_?

Martin’s head reeled as he placed the note back on the desk. Had he gotten in trouble? He hadn’t meant to interfere with anyone’s work, quite frankly he hadn’t received much in the way of guidance since he’d started working here. _God, did Sasha or Tim complain?_ Did _Jon_?

The upgrade should have made him feel better, but instead it seemed to turn to recrimination in his mind. Martin couldn’t trust anything from Elias; that had been made clear with a single glance. He felt a pang in his chest from the idea that any one of his new acquaintances (even _Jessica_ ) had seen fit to complain about his work. Sure, he hadn’t really done the best job of organizing, but according to Tim he ‘didn’t have a real job.’ Had anyone even done this before him? If they had, they did a shit job of it. 

He was interrupted by a knock on the open door. Tim smiled at him from the doorway, a hand on his hip as he slouched into the room. “Nice digs! You’ve got your own proper office here.”

“I guess,” Martin shrugged, unsure of how to respond. “Not really clear why I got it, though? Nobody seemed to care before.”

“The mind of our Watcher is truly inscrutable at times!” Tim replied dramatically. “Anyway, it looks like it’s my turn to flirt with the Archivist!”

_Wait, what?_

Tim must have noticed his confusion, for he quickly began to shake his head. “You should see your face, mate! Don’t worry, I’m not going to encroach on your territory. Just a few harmless one-liners, the usual, see what I can do.” He winked at him. “But after that, I’ll sing nothing but your praises!”

Martin sputtered, his face turning red. “N-no, what are you talking about? Why are you suddenly going down there?”

“It isn’t _your Archives_ , Martin. You may lay claim to the man, but you can’t stake out an entire part of the institute! Greedy.” Tim paused, looking at him with interest. “Got an email this morning from the big guy- looks like you need a break to catch up on all of this, so I’m taking over the deliveries for now. You’re welcome!” A cheeky grin. 

“N-nobody told me this! I don’t understand- did someone complain? Am I doing- _am I fucking this up, Tim?_ ” Martin made his way over to the doorway, desperate for an answer. 

Tim held up his hands in surrender, clearly taken aback by Martin’s vehemence. “Whoa whoa whoa! I know about as much as you do, Marto! Maybe a smidgen more, given your...confusion. Look, it’s probably just Elias being a toad, as usual. He likes to play games sometimes, keep us on our toes. I think it's a part of the whole “working for a fear entity” thing.” Tim studied him as he made his way back over to his chair, collapsing in the cold comfort. “I doubt it’ll last forever. Besides, absence does make the heart grow fonder, eh?” Martin didn’t respond, and Tim took that as his cue to leave. “I’ll be back in a sec, and I’ll give you an update on your lover-boy!”

Martin didn’t dignify that with a response. His mind raced. First the new office, and now being cut off from both his new friends and the one man who could probably answer all of his questions, if he only had more time? He felt like the Martin of two weeks ago, barely aware of his situation- albeit in much nicer workspace. Did he imagine that smile from Jon on Sunday? _He hadn’t been in the alleyway afterwards. Probably to stay away from you._ Had everyone finally had enough of his ignorance, his failure to grasp even the most basic of tasks? _Worthless, just like your mother’s always said-_

Tim _was_ in fact back in a second, startling Martin as he propped open the door and wheeled a few boxes in. Only ten minutes had passed- barely enough time to grab the boxes and run, judging by the length of Martin’s visits. 

“Nothing to report, mate. Doesn’t seem like our Archivist’s in a chatty mood.” He shook his head and grunted as he placed the boxes on the neat stack at the side of the room. “Went down there, called out a nice little hello- I can be very pleasant, as you know.” Tim could be, that’s true. “But he just poked his head out of some side room and looked at me all scared, then _slammed the door shut!_ ” Tim shook his head again, seemingly baffled by the turn of events. Martin couldn’t imagine he was rebuffed that often, if at all. “Honestly, Martin- I know I come on strong, but I’ve never had a man immediately hide at the sight of me. I’ll have to try harder.”

Ashamedly, Martin felt a bit better at Tim’s words. _Maybe Jon’s having a bad week, and Elias doesn’t want people around him?_ The thought made his blood run cold- maybe something was actually wrong with Jon, something Martin couldn’t help him with. Something more dangerous than the coffin, even. _What could be more awful than that?_ Still, someone should at least talk to the man. If there was ever someone in dire need of socialization, it was Jon.

“Bring him some tea next time.” Martin called to Tim as he moved to leave. If he couldn’t take care of him directly, he could resign himself to advising his replacement. “He likes that.”

* * *

  
  


The rest of the week followed a dull, predictable pattern, each day bringing him less joy than the next. Tim dutifully brought up the boxes, with little-to-no informative updates about the situation downstairs. Martin had thought several times about visiting or reaching out, but stopped himself from going through with it. Of all the possibilities for the sudden shut out, none of them seemed positive in his mind. _Jon must be mad at me. Elias as well. Otherwise, why wouldn’t he reach out? I’ll let him cool off._

He wandered in and out of the institute like a sleepwalker, his movements growing more sluggish as the week went on. He’d mostly stopped theorizing by now, as every one ended in the inevitable conclusion of _he’s just not that into you_ . Being friends or coworkers or otherwise. He’d shoved last week’s gift back under his bed, too bereft at the sudden loss in company to even attempt any form of “self-care.” _Sorry Nikola,_ he thought to himself. _It seems like your gift is wasted on me as well._

This wasn’t helped by the call he’d received Thursday evening. Martin had been neglecting his mother, that much was true. He usually visited on Sundays, but he’d been caught up in the whirlwind his life had become and hadn’t called her in at least two weeks. One tongue lashing later, and he was begrudgingly stopping by this coming Sunday. She didn’t enjoy his company, of course, much less his ramblings, but the loss of attention must have stung. His mother loved a captive audience. Emphasis on ‘captive.’ Besides, he didn’t think his company would be appreciated at services- actually, it was more like he couldn’t bear to show his face. 

Loneliness was never a good look on Martin Blackwood.

* * *

“He doesn’t drink the tea, Martin!” Tim complained after dropping off the latest batch on a Friday afternoon. “It just sits there, cold, and I replace it the next day- same thing! He doesn’t come out of his office now- if he’s even there to begin with. What witchcraft did you use to get him to talk to you?” Tim’s eyes widened, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Don’t tell me it's the Web, Martin. I know you like spiders, but to bring _that_ into _our institute_ -”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tim,” Martin replied bluntly. “Here, let me make the tea. He...likes the way I make it. I’ll let you know when it’s done, and you can take it down. Maybe he’ll talk to you then?”

Tim shrugged in defeat. “Whatever, man. Put in all your weird potions or drugs you usually brew it with. I’ll try anything at this point.”

Another sentence Martin didn’t dignify with a response.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Martin had all but given up hope of ever hearing from the Archivist when his phone let out a quiet ping. He’d taken it off silent at the beginning of the week, since he’d been banished to his office.

**Unknown (13:45)** _Thank you for the tea, Martin. I know you are most likely still angry from our last encounter- I understand the position I put you in was not ideal. However, if you could indulge me, briefly, I would like to ask a question of you. Is Tim nice?_

Martin only remembered to breathe after a full minute. He’d _completely_ forgotten that Jon had previously called him all those days ago- Martin could’ve just sent a _text_ , for god’s sake! His moment of euphoria was soon clouded with confusion as he reread the message. _Mad?_

He began typing a reply as fast he could, questions flying from his fingertips.

**Martin Blackwood (13:46)** _Mad? Why would I be mad? I said I forgave you! I thought YOU were mad, hence the whole new set-up and the note from Elias._

**Martin Blackwood (13:46)** _But yes, Tim’s nice. Very friendly! I promise he doesn’t bite. Much._

Martin backtracked.

**Martin Blackwood (13:46)** _That was a joke._

Jon began typing, and Martin’s leg jiggled impatiently in anticipation. 

**Unknown (13:47)** _Humorous._

**Unknown (13:47)** _Note from Elias? I’m afraid I don’t follow._

**Unknown (13:47)** _I’ve been trying not to...Know things, when it comes to you. And others._

Martin’s heart panged in his chest at the response. _So_ that’s _why he hadn’t been in touch. Is this all Elias’s doing? Have I been spiraling because of that stupid man? And not my own gross incompetence?_ He typed back quickly.

**Martin Blackwood (13:48)** _That’s very considerate of you, Jon. But I think in this situation, considering the ‘Elias’ of it all, you could get a pass._

**Unknown (13:48):** _Thank you. That's very kind. One moment._

A beat passed. Martin’s phone let out a shrill ring, informing him that ‘Unknown’ was calling.

Martin answered.

“ _That miserable OAF!”_ Ah, there he was. Martin laughed giddily at the return of that manic, angry voice. He'd missed it- It was starting to grow on him. “ _I_ _f I didn’t know he was such a narcissistic, perverted voyeur I’d take him for an Avatar of the Lonely! Who does he think he is, Peter Lukas?!? Is this the Magnus Institute, or the fucking TUNDRA!”_

Martin had no idea what any of this meant. “Go on, then!” he responded anyway, fondness and relief mixed in his tone.

“ _Mark my words, he’ll pay for this. Useless...cabbage!”_ That’s a new one. Jon sighed on the other end. “ _Sorry about all of this...mess, Martin. I should’ve realized he was up to something when Tim came down instead of you. Elias pulled something similar when I started talking to Gerry. I’ll fix this, but in the meantime, please carry on with what you’re doing. I don’t want him to take it out on you.”_

Martin was hesitant to agree; he’d had enough enforced isolation to last a lifetime. But Jon seemed very intent, and he trusted him to make things right. _You can wait a few more days, Blackwood. You’ve had worse._ “Alright, then. If you know what you’re doing. Take care, yeah? And...don’t wait too long, maybe? I’m getting a bit bored, to be honest.”

_“Take care of yourself, Martin. And again...sorry about all of this.”_

The sadness in his voice made Martin want to immediately reassure him. “Really, it’s-” he began, only to notice the dial tone. “...fine.”

He pulled the phone from his ear and sat it down on his desk, a small smile forming on his face. He didn’t hear from Jon for the rest of the day, but Tim did stop by to happily inform him that his tea had been received and emptied, accompanied with a note from the Archivist himself. He passed it along giddily.

_Thank you for your hard work, Tim. You seem very nice. - Jon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a shorter update than usual- this ending felt like a better stopping point, and the chapter was getting a bit too long. I'll probably have the next one up a bit sooner now.
> 
> Any comments or kudos are appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin pays a visit and makes a friend.

The weekend provided a welcome break for Martin, who’d spent the last week in a sort of limbo. He’d spent the better part of it drowned in thoughts of low self-worth, brought about by Elias’s strange machinations. If Jon was perpetually suspicious of the man (with good reason), Martin was doubly so. Why would he bother with someone as insignificant as a file clerk, anyway?

One positive thing had emerged from the situation, however- he and Jon were _texting_!

He’d tentatively written out another text to the man on Saturday- Martin didn’t want to seem clingy, but he was also very aware of the consequences of miscommunication, especially when it came to Jon. So he’d taken about ten minutes to draft a fairly basic text, just to test the waters. He’d spent most of the morning hemming and hawing over timing- _is three too late? Is ten too early?_ He settled on noon- that was reasonable, right? _Right?_

**Martin Blackwood (11:52)** _Hi there Jon! I hope you are having a good weekend. Are you doing anything fun today?_

Really? This was the best he could come up with? _Whatever._ He pressed send, and saw the three bubbles which indicated that Jon was typing almost right away. He fought back a smile.

**Jonathan Sims (11:52)** _No._

Ah.

**Jonathan Sims (11:52)** _Are you doing anything fun today? Siri google fun weekend activities_

**Martin Blackwood (11:53)** _Sorry, what?_

**Jonathan Sims (11:53):** _That was a typo. Apologies._

**Martin Blackwood (11:53)** _No worries! I’m not doing much today either. I’m visiting my mother tomorrow, though. So if you can’t find me during services, that’s why!_

Martin felt a little silly assuming that Jon would even notice his absence, but he wanted to make sure that Jon knew he wasn’t avoiding him. That’s what had gotten them into this whole mess in the first place. That, and an evil overlord of a boss. It was multifaceted.

**Jonathan Sims (11:54)** _Oh, okay._

**Jonathan Sims (11:54)** _I’m sorry you won’t be here. I find the Spiral very fascinating, and I think you would have as well._

Damn.

**Martin Blackwood (11:55)** _Oh? What’s this statement about?_

**Jonathan Sims (11:55)** _Sergey Ushanka. The man who tried to upload his brain into a computer, and sort of succeeded._

A beat. Martin did not know how to respond to that.

**Jonathan Sims (11:55)** _The angles cut him when he tried to think!_

_Um, what the hell?_ Martin wanted to ask him to clarify, but he wasn’t sure he’d like the answer. Scratch that, he was _definitely_ sure he wouldn’t like the answer. He settled for something vaguely encouraging, instead.

**Martin Blackwood (11:56)** _Very cool! Sorry to miss it._

Martin was not really sorry to miss it, but he didn’t want to upset him- Jon had used an exclamation point, so he must have been excited about this computer-man. _Don’t want to insult him or hurt his feelings._

**Jonathan Sims (11:57)** _I’ll see if Helen will let me hold on to one of the floppy discs. Elias doesn’t usually let me have an artefact for longer than a week, but Helen likes me, I think._

Helen- maybe another HR employee? Someone else had to work there besides Jessica, right?

**Martin Blackwood (11:57)** _Good luck! :)_

Typing...a few pauses. More typing.

**Jonathan Sims (11:58)** _Thank you for the sentiment, but it’s not needed. The Power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows within me, so luck doesn’t have anything to do with it. Additionally, in the spirit of well wishes, you should never say good luck- break a leg is the appropriate salutation. That’s how they do it in the theatre._

**Jonathan Sims (11:58)** _Or so I’m told._

Martin felt like he’d unlocked a new bit of lore. _Was the Archivist a secret theater geek?_

**Martin Blackwood (11:59)** _Break a leg, then! :)_

**Jonathan Sims (11:59)** _Thank you, Martin._

**Jonathan Sims (11:59)** _:::::::::::::::::::00)_

**Jonathan Sims (12:00)** _Apologies. That was a typo._

**Jonathan Sims (12:00)** _:)_

Martin took a screenshot for posterity. He didn’t have anyone to send it to- yet. _Maybe Sasha and Tim will want a groupchat, at some point?_ Couldn’t hurt to have it on hand.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Sunday was shaping up to be a beautiful day- a shame he had to spend it in the dreary assisted living facility which housed his mother. He shouldn’t complain- it was his fault she was there, after all. He couldn’t care for her once the dementia got worse; he wasn’t around to make sure she took her medication or stayed away from the stairs. Putting her here was really the only choice, but that didn’t stave off the intense guilt that flooded him each time he thought of her. Still, he’d come to enjoy the ritual of post-service brunch, and today was a great day to try one of those outdoor cafes Tim was always going on about.

Martin wondered if they missed him, too.

He made his way to the front desk, trying to get the attention of the bored-looking receptionist. She made a few slow doodles on her notepad before deigning to look at him. “Name?”

“Anka Blackwood. N-no, sorry, I’m Martin Blackwood. For Anka. Blackwood.” _Maybe you’re the one who belongs here. Can’t you speak?_

The receptionist, whose name tag revealed her to be “Marla,” lazily typed in the information and thrust a sign in sheet towards him. He dutifully filled it out, and took the stairs to room 2H. His mother’s room.

He crept around the corner as it came into sight, hesitating more and more with each step. _Why are you scared, Blackwood? This is your mother. You dealt with her for almost thirty years._ He forced himself to walk through the open doorway with a cheerful “Hello, Mum!”

She was sitting in a wheelchair facing the window. It provided a nice enough view of the lawn- only a few trees, but nothing to complain about. Anka had always been an imposing figure in life, but the disease had whittled her down to this small, hunched woman in the chair. Her hair fell lankly around her shoulders, and her foggy eyes barely lifted to meet his.

“‘Bout time. Months, no visit,” She grunted, her voice as snide as ever. This wasn’t true, of course- she’d only been here two months, and Martin had been very diligent about his visits until he started at the Magnus Institute. He didn’t dare contradict her, however. He knew how futile that would be.

“Sorry about that, Mum. I’ve been really busy- I know it’s no excuse, but I actually got a new job, if you can believe it!” Martin had mentioned it once over the phone, but his mother hadn’t picked up on it. It was a lot easier to give news in person- she tended to remember better that way.

“Hm? Who would hire you? The Tescos round the corner?” She snorted at her own joke, but it quickly turned into a wheeze. “Hope you’ve been keeping the house tidy. If I come back…”

Martin began to tune her out after this. She rarely remembered that they’d had to give up the house, and Martin planned to keep it that way. She’d gotten so distraught when they first moved her here that she’d been in an almost catatonic state for a week. It was better this way, for the both of them.

“It’s in excellent shape, I swear,” he replied instead, cutting her off. “It’s a library job, actually. Working in their...archives. File clerk!”

“Not likely,” Another wheeze. Martin grabbed a glass of water from the counter beside him, but she waved him off with an imperious hand. “If it’s got you working Sundays, it’s more than menial, eh?”

Martin paused, unsure of how to respond. She had a point- he didn’t want to push her, but the urge to correct in these rare moments of lucidity won out. “I’ve actually started attending church on Sundays. Like we used to, before...everything.”

It was _technically_ true.

She gave him an appraising look, almost impressed. “C of E, naturally.” She supplied, leaving no room for argument.

“Naturally,” he agreed. It _was_ in England. And it _was_ a church. A little change in preposition never hurt anyone, right?

The rest of the visit continued much in the same vein as before, with confrontation on his mother’s part and acquiescence on his. All in all, not one of his worst Sundays. And now his mother couldn’t complain about his absence- though she most likely would, anyway.

Later in the day, as he made his way off the tube, his phone dinged with a notification- a message from Jon.

**Jonathan Sims (15:28)** _Unfortunately, I could not hold on to the discs. It was Michael who came this time, and he’s notoriously fickle. This is probably for the best- I think it would make us watch all 17 hours over again. I find it captivating, but I understand most would not enjoy a man slowly eating his computer and crying out in pain. Maybe another time._

Thank God for that. Or thank Michael. Whoever that was.

**Martin Blackwood (15:30)** _Darn!_

Another ding.

**Jonathan Sims (15:31)** _If you see an unfamiliar door in your apartment, please knock first. Or avoid completely, if possible._

**Martin Blackwood (15:31)** _???_

**Martin Blackwood (15:35)** _?????????????_

* * *

Martin threw a smile and nod at Daisy as he made his way through the Institute doors on Monday morning. He hadn’t heard from Jon after his ridiculous texts on Sunday, but he also hadn’t encountered any new doors, thankfully. He’d taken extra care as he arrived back at his apartment, staring at his front door distrustfully until he was _sure_ it hadn’t changed.

He knocked anyway, and then felt silly when no one answered. _Obviously._

The day proceeded like much of last week, though Martin was anxious to know when he would be able to resume his old job again. Tim had stopped by the office and Martin had dutifully given him the proper tea to deliver. Two hours later, Tim had happily shown him the sticky note attached to the cup- a crudely drawn smiley face. “I’m going to pin it up on my desk!”

And yet, no message from Jon. Martin wanted to be patient, truly, but actually doing the job he was hired for was monstrously dull. Even _with_ the comfy chair.

So, with hours of busy work ahead, Martin decided to take an early and long lunch. Maybe a nice walk to the park nearby? Even get a dessert? He deserved it, after all. He started towards the cafe with an unearned spring in his step. _Maybe I’ll get a large chai instead of a medium…_

“Oi! Blackwood, is it?”

Martin jumped and spun around rather gracefully. The man who’d presumably shouted at him gave an impressed nod. He was tall, of a height with Martin, but lean and muscular. He was outfitted in a long black trench coat ( _overkill, if you ask me_ ), ripped skinny jeans, heavy steel-toed boots and a grungy t-shirt which read ‘ _Mentally Gone.’_ It took Martin about all of ten seconds to realize he was talking with-

“Gerard Keay, is it?” He parroted back, complimenting himself on his cleverness. _Smooth move, Blackwood._

He was met with a smirk and a nod, which made Martin feel like he’d passed some sort of test. “My reputation precedes me, then!”

“Er, yeah, I guess. I saw that Youtube series you made-”

Gerard mock-preened. “Of course you did.”

“-and Jon mentioned you a few times. You’re friends, then?” 

“‘Course.” Jon would be happy to hear that. “Came by on a bit of business.” With this, he took a small book out of his jacket pocket and waved it in the air. “Walk with me, talk with me.”

And so they fell into step down the street, passing by the cafe Martin planned to stop in. _So much for the large chai._ As they walked, Martin’s eyes were drawn to the book held tight in Gerard’s grasp. It wasn’t particularly noteworthy, but it did seem to be leaving an odd, rusty residue on the man’s hands. Martin thought he should let him know.

“Your book’s bleeding,” he supplied helpfully. 

“Yeah,” Gerard gave an unconcerned glance down to the book in his hands. “It tends to do that, sometimes. Leitners’ aren’t fun, but the Slaughter is particularly messy.” He gave him an appraising look. “I was going to dispose of this closer to home, but maybe you’d like a practical demonstration? Could be fun!” The goth winked at him, and Martin found himself oddly charmed by this man, bleeding book aside. _Didn’t Sasha mention something about a Leitner? Is this what she was talking about?_ He sort of remembered Jon saying something about Gerry helping him with books.

“Sure,” he replied. “Wasn’t doing much, anyway.” 

“Excellent,” Gerard grinned, grabbing him by the arm. “My favorite alley’s just up this way.”

Martin might have made a mistake, he was now realizing. Gerard’s favorite alley was truly around the corner, and wasn’t that impressive. It was empty, dirty (as alleyways were wont to be), and contained a single rubbish bin surrounded by scorch marks. Gerard threw the bleeding book into the bin with a flourish.

“...is that all?” _Was this a lesson about littering?_

Gerard scoffed and elbowed him sharply. “‘Course not, idiot. Leitner’s need a bit more than a trash can to keep ‘em contained.” He took a small bottle out of his coat ( _lighter fluid!)_ and began to douse the book with it, thoroughly coating the bottom of the bin. 

“Jon says you’re an...independent contractor for the institute?” Martin asked while watching Gerard go about his work. He was rewarded with an obnoxious snort and a flick of the man’s poorly dyed hair. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. But hey, whatever works for billing!” He chucked the empty bottle to the bottom of the bin with unnecessary force.

“Jon’s a little weirdo, but he’s got a good heart,” he said fondly, pulling a pack of cigarettes from one of his many pockets. “He contacted me when he first started as the Archivist. Ignored him for a few weeks, of course.” 

He took a cigarette out of the back and put it between his lips. He held the pack out to Martin in silent invitation, but was waved off. Gerard shrugged, and lit his own with a beat-up Zippo lighter that had an elaborate eye design on the side. _Wonder if they sell those at the gift shop! Wait, do they have a gift shop?_

“Anyway, I eventually gave in- he can be persistent, I’m sure you know,” he gave Martin a sly glance, which both warmed and confused him. “We ended up working out a system- a quid pro quo, if you will. He Knows where I can find some of these nasty fuckers-” a gesture to the book “- and in return, once I find ‘em, I let him have a look-see before their inevitable destruction. Everyone’s happy, and Jon gets someone to talk to who’s not a tape recorder or Elias Douchard.” He took a long drag of his cigarette and raised an eyebrow at Martin. “But I guess he’s got you now too, hm?”

Martin sputtered and Gerard laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Speaking of, why the hell are _you_ here? I’m gone for a few weeks and suddenly it’s all ‘ _Mah-tin got me cake, Gerry’_ and _‘Mah-tin makes the best tea’_ and ‘ _Gerry, you have to help me with Mah-”_

“Oh my God, please stop,” Martin interrupted, torn between mortification and laughter. “It’s just- to be honest, this was the only place that would take me. I didn’t know _anything_ about the whole cult business-”

Gerard burst into laughter, choking on the smoke he’d been about to exhale. “Wait- _really_? Oh man, oh fuck.” He dissolved into a hacking cough, and Martin gave him a pat on the back in concern. “I’m fine, really. It’s just- _wow._ You didn’t know _anything?”_

“Nope,” Martin replied with a self-effacing smile. “I didn’t really have anywhere else to go, to be honest. I’ve sort of been coasting along ever since then. It’s not that bad.”

Gerard sobered a bit, leaning back against the brick wall of the building next door. “I hear that. Was the same with me. But you shouldn’t settle- not there.” He faced Martin with an intense stare, pointing with the cigarette for emphasis. “That place is _fucked up_ , Martin. Jon’s trying to make it better, and God knows he’s not Gertrude, thankfully- but Elias is still there, and he’s a total piece of shit as well. And if you’re going to continue working there, which you _shouldn’t_ , you’ve got to know you’re on his radar. If you keep talking to Jon.”

“I know,” Martin muttered. It was true- this place wasn’t safe, he’d seen that first hand. But now he had _friends_ , he had _Jon_ , and he couldn’t just leave them on their own, right? “I don’t know where else I could go. I need the money.”

“You could come with me,” Gerry offered- and it seemed sincere. _Why are all of these strange people so sincere? What did I do to deserve that? I just met this guy._ “I’ll teach you the business- hunting down Leitners isn’t glamorous or anything, but I _do_ get to travel all over. Plus, you’re actually making a difference- the less of these, the better.” He kicked the bin in emphasis. “But you don’t want to leave, not really. Am I right?”

_You’re right._ “I don’t- not yet, anyway. I need-”

“Answers, right.” Gerard rolled his eyes. “That’s what they all say. You’re in too deep already. That’s the draw of the Eye- though maybe it’s not the Beholding that’s got you in its hooks, eh?” He let out one last exhale of smoke and straightened. “But if you’re gonna survive there, you’ve got to learn to look out for yourself. Don’t take _any_ shit. And if you think someone’s out to get you, get ‘em right back. Where it _hurts_.”

And with that, Gerard threw the flickering stub of his cigarette into the bin. The book erupted in flames, and Martin stepped back at the noise emanating from the book. _Did it just scream?_

“Fuck Leitner, am I right?”

“Yeah,” Martin replied faintly. “Fuck Leitner.”

* * *

After that brief but informative interlude, Martin spent the rest of the day reading up on Leitners- both the man and the book. Sasha had helpfully provided several different articles and books on the matter (none of them actual Leitners, thankfully) and Martin was none-too-excited to learn that some books were out to get him as well. _Is nothing sacred?_

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Martin was surprised to see Daisy in front of her usual perch with a smile on her face, looking upwards at the high ceiling in the hallway. She gestured for him to move closer, and nodded her head in the direction of the commotion. Martin followed her gaze.

There were five incredibly tall ladders, workers scurrying about in hard hats as they passed up- security cameras? Looking closer, he noticed that the old cameras that lined the hallway seemed to be excessively...damaged. Hanging pathetically, with bits of metal and glass littering the hallway. Like someone had set them alight, or took a baseball bat to them, or a-

“Pipe!” piped a voice from behind him. _Jon._ He spun around to see the man standing serenely in reception, sipping at a cup of coffee. He had a sleepy, satisfied look on his face, and he gave Martin a small, Knowing smile that made his heart beat faster. “I mean, you could say that. I couldn’t possibly comment. Terrible business. Elias must be infuriated.” _Hit ‘em where it hurts, indeed._

Martin paused, awareness dawning suddenly. “Wait-”

“Shame they didn’t catch who did it. Are you slipping up, Daisy?”

“Might be,” she agreed easily, her smile turning feral. “Really should keep a better eye on the place. Apologies.”

Jon nodded, suddenly all business. “Martin, I’ll expect you at your usual time-no need to bring tea. It’s such a nice day, we should take advantage of it, yes?”

Martin smiled back easily, nodding in agreement. “Yes, we should! ...Be seeing you, then?”

Jon favored him with a bright grin, and Martin felt his heart melt. “Be seeing you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerry! My son. Couldn't let him go without a bit of arson and destruction. He should pop up once or twice after this. I'm not done with him yet!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed- as always, comments are very appreciated.
> 
> In the next few chapters: more tea, and maybe some trivia.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin get to Know each other a little bit more.

They sat down at a small table in the backyard of the cafe, sun filtering through the trees that lined the fence. Martin thought the whole thing looked terribly romantic, though of course Jon wouldn’t agree- getting tea with a coworker was _not_ a date. _Not yet,_ a traitorous part of his mind whispered.

Two Chai teas, a cheese danish for himself, and an alarmingly large slice of cake for Jon ( _Funfetti Surprise!_ the sign had read). Martin nibbled politely on his pastry, and Jon took such large bites of his that most of the frosting ended up on his face.

“You’ve got a little...something on your cheek?” Martin squeaked. He briefly debated letting the man know, but his manners won out- no matter how cute Jon looked with his pleased smile and messy face. The man seemed completely unembarrassed as he used his fingers to wipe it off and promptly licked them clean, oblivious to Martin’s blood-red face. 

“I am going to get to know you,” Jon informed Martin, matter-of-fact. “Gerry says this is part of the process.” _What process?_ “You will tell me- I would _like_ to know your hobbies.” 

_Fuck. Fuck._

Suddenly his mind blanked. _Who am I? What do I do? What do I like?_ Sleeping. Overthinking. Worrying. Sometimes watching a show but stopping in the middle and forgetting everything that happened and being too lazy to start from the beginning. Sometimes he liked to walk? _Why is it that I suddenly become a non-entity when asked to describe myself in a sociable setting?_

If he were being honest, Martin hadn’t really had a chance to introduce himself in a non-professional setting since school and a few failed dates years ago. Even at brunch or with Tim and Sasha, he was usually the one doing the asking and getting side-tracked by the absurd circumstances of his situation. _Great, Jon’s going to think you’re a complete bore and never want to speak to you again-_

“Are you alright?”

Martin realized then that he hadn’t spoken for a few minutes, and Jon was looking at him in concern. _Idiot! Speak words!_

“Poetry!” he blurted out, startling Jon. _There it is! Thoughts! Good job, Blackwood_. “Reading poetry. I uh, sometimes I also write it? I haven’t in a while, but…” He trailed off, now self-conscious. “Do you- do you like reading? Poetry, I mean.”

“No.”

_Great job, mate._

Seeing the look on his face, Jon began to backtrack. “I mean, I haven’t really found anything I like, yet? But that’s really interesting! That you write it!” He gave Martin’s hand a pat in a placating gesture, and his hand burned where Jon touched it. “Can I read it sometime? Your poetry?”

“No!” Martin replied, horrified. Jon gave him a look of hurt that he cursed himself for causing. “I mean, it’s just not very...good, y’know? I don’t want to bore you.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Jon argued, his brow furrowing. “ _You_ wrote it, after all.”

_You wrote it, after all._

Martin’s mind went blank. Jon wanted to read it? Jon, who just told him point-blank that he didn’t enjoy poetry, wants to read his because _Martin_ wrote it? The sentiment was so sweet that it boggled his mind and sort of inspired him to whip out a pen and write a shitty haiku on his napkin. He wouldn’t, of course.

“Alright,” he found himself agreeing. _Wait, what?_ “Just to clarify, though- it’s _not_ good. And I haven’t written in a while. I’m no Keats or anything.” _No take backs now!_

“Thank the Eye for that!” Jon replied with a roll of his eyes. “He’s so...derivative. I did _not_ enjoy reading him in college.” Martin made a mental note to go back and rip the pages of his journal that were inspired by _Ode on a Grecian Urn._ Definitely too derivative.

“Oh, yeah. Completely.” Martin lied.

He took another bite of his danish to stem his mortification at agreeing to share his incredibly personal and often morose poetry. He wrote a lot of it during his darker moments, when his mother was particularly scornful and difficult to handle. Martin had very little positive inspiration...but maybe that could change, now? He was certainly feeling lighter than ever. And Jon’s presence inspired a certain romance in him that he’d never felt before. _Best to keep any odes on his raven locks to yourself, though._

He decided to steer the conversation to a much safer topic- not Martin. “So, you took some English courses in uni? You went to Oxford, right?”

“Yes,” Jon replied. His face began to darken a bit, and Martin started to feel guilt at picking what seemed to be a delicate topic. “I enjoy academia, there’s no doubt about that. But it was a..tumultuous time in my life. I don’t like to talk about it much.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin started, “We don’t need to talk about that if-”

Jon grimaced and waved him off. “No, if I’m going to talk about it...well, I wouldn’t mind discussing it with you. After all, we are-you’re my-” he paused, turning red and seeming to struggle for words. “You’re _Martin._ ”

Martin didn’t understand the sentiment, the _fondness_ in the way Jon said his name. It felt unearned. _I’m your what?_ Is what Martin wanted to say, but kept to himself. He didn’t want to break the little spell they were under with clarifications and difficult discussions. Not at _tea._ So he remained silent, letting Jon continue.

“I mean, I had friends, I had a group-” another self-conscious pause. “It doesn’t matter. It ended badly, and I committed myself to schoolwork, like I should’ve done all along. That’s around the time I was- approached, I guess you would say? By Elias. He saw something in me. Knew the answers I wanted. Promised to give them. And he did.”

Jon’s eyes took on a far away look, lost in a haze of memories. “The years after that- when I accepted, before all of this- were _transformative,_ Martin. I’ve changed so much. The Eye gives so many blessings- but it also takes. _So much_. Elias didn’t tell me about that part. Said I’d have to ‘experience the glory of Knowing by myself.’” Jon scowled, as he often did when talking about the Watcher. “I owe him such a debt, but he _took advantage of me_. Gerry helped me see that. And sometimes, I’m not sure if I am...good anymore. Inside.” He went silent, looking down on his lap.

" _Fuck that._ ” Martin surprised them both with the vehemence of his answer. Jon’s head shot up and he fixed him with a wide-eyed gaze. “You’re _good_ , Jon. And I don’t need the ‘Eye’ or whatever to see that. You’re trying your best in what are admittedly fucked-up circumstances. But that doesn’t make you any less of a person, no matter what ‘spooky powers’ you get. And _fuck anyone_ who says otherwise.” Martin let out a heavy breath, shocked by what came out of his mouth. But he couldn’t listen to Jon put himself down like that. It made something in him roar with an anger he hadn’t felt in years.

Jon blinked, his gaze a bit watery at Martin’s words. “I hate the word spooky.”

“W-what? _Is that what you got from that statement_?”

“N-no! Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I-I just. Thank you, for that. It makes me...it’s very nice of you to say that. And I think-” Jon looked down at his lap, wringing his hands nervously and blushing. “I think you’re good too.”

Martin stuttered. It turns out he could be surprisingly eloquent, as long as he wasn’t accepting a compliment. Words began to pour out of his mouth, and he found himself confessing to Jon what he promised to keep private. “Just to be-to be very clear, I didn’t actually… I lied on my CV. And I know, that’s not very _good_ of me. I didn’t go to college like you, I barely-”

“Martin,” Jon interrupted softly. “I know. I mean, I accidentally- well, not _accidentally_ \- I Knew it when you first came to the Archives. Before we had our- our chat about not doing that. Knowing.”

Martin stayed silent, unsure of what to say. Jon didn’t seem to be judgmental, but he still felt uncomfortable with his sudden word vomit. Confessing to a priest whose religion quite literally _worships_ knowledge felt anathema to him. Jon’s next words, however, dispelled his worries.

“I don’t really care about that. I mean, your education doesn’t define you. It’s your actions, right?” Jon gave a hesitant smile. “You didn’t pledge yourself to our church or anything. And you have a thirst for knowledge that is pretty unmatched. You ask...a _lot_ of questions, I’ve heard.” Martin blushed at that. “And that makes you kind of perfect for us, actually.”

_Perfect._ Now that’s a word that had never been used to describe Martin Blackwood.

Jon’s face became serious, and he took Martin’s hand with the delicacy of one breaking unfortunate news. Martin gulped at the sudden intensity, and his hand felt sweaty in Jon’s.

“But- well, I hate to be the one to tell you this- your qualifications don’t really matter, because-” He paused, taking a deep breath. “You don’t have a real job, anyway.”

Martin began to laugh. It started as a soft chuckle, but soon became louder and he threw his head back with a giant grin as Jon looked on, puzzled. _What the hell has my life become? And why do I like it so much?_ He ran a hand through his hair as he trailed off into small giggles.

“Yeah, I know. I sort of figured that.”

* * *

As they walked back to the institute, arm-in-arm, Martin decided to make a rather forward request.

“Would you like to come to brunch with me? I mean- with my friends?” Jon stopped moving and stared at him. Did he make a mistake in asking? Was that too much? He continued nervously. “It’s something Tim and Sasha do after services on Sunday- you remember Tim? And sometimes Basira and Daisy come. You like Daisy!” 

“I can’t do anything after services.” Jon replied, genuinely saddened that he had to say no. “It’s, ah- kind of exhausting, the statements and everything. And Elias likes me to speak to any visitors afterward, so…” He trailed off. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright!” Martin reassured him. “Maybe we can do something else, some other time?” _Please say yes._

“I’d like that!” Jon replied, fixing him with a shy smile. _He’d like that! Score!_ Martin smiled back, and they resumed their walk back to the institute.

“Does the institute have a gift shop, or something?” Martin blurted out as he remembered his thought from yesterday. “It’s just- Gerry has this eye lighter in the exact design-”

“Oh!” Jon perked up and dug around in his right pocket, pulling out a similar, albeit much cleaner lighter with a spider-web design on it. “I got them as a gift and gave one to Gerry. We’ve got a matching set!” 

“Like a friendship bracelet, but dangerous?” Martin teased and Jon scowled back at him, though it lacked any real heat. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he sniffed. “It’s just a thoughtful gift. Besides, I already made him a bracelet.”

“Wait, what?”

“You know, a gift shop isn’t a bad idea,” Jon mused, ignoring Martin’s question. “Elias _loves_ capitalism.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


On Thursday, Martin shuffled nervously down to the Archives at his usual time. He’d procrastinated on bringing his poetry journal, but Jon had asked after it yesterday and Martin couldn’t think of a proper excuse. So here he was, approaching the door at half his usual pace and pausing outside, tea in one shaking hand and his journal clutched in the other. 

“You got this, Blackwood!” Daisy barked from behind him, laughing as he jumped. Miraculously he managed not to spill a drop of tea, but he still shot her a nasty glare. _Could’ve burned myself. So annoying_ , he groused with no heat.

He steeled himself and walked into the Archives; Jon was perched on his usual desk near the front. He looked tired, but he brightened immediately at Martin’s presence and reached out his hands. Martin smiled back, handing him his tea and after a moment, his journal.

“These are my p-poems,” he said sheepishly, looking immediately down at the ground. Despite Jon asking after it very sincerely, he was still reluctant to share. They were pretty personal, and sad- though he’d added a few happier ones the night before (not so bad ones, either). What if Jon came back with critique? What if he hated them? Martin didn’t think his heart could handle the rejection. After all, the man straight-out said he didn’t enjoy the genre. _But maybe he’ll like mine…_

Jon took the journal reverentially, lightly touching it as if it were a precious object. Martin felt the immediate need to qualify his work and started to stutter out excuses. “T-they aren’t much, so don’t feel bad if you don’t like them. You can tell me, o-or you don’t even have to read them, actually, if you’d prefer-”

“Martin,” Jon quickly interrupted. “I _want_ to read them. I told you that.” He clutched the journal to his chest. “I know I said I didn’t like poetry, but you wrote all of these. So they’re-they’re different, yeah?” He looked down at his lap, suddenly blushing and Martin’s heart stuttered in his chest as Jon quietly continued. “They’re your _statements_.”

Martin was silent for a moment, letting the words settle in his chest with an overwhelming warmth. “Yeah,” he agreed, still looking at the floor. “Yeah, I guess they are!”

Jon cleared his throat and hopped off the desk, setting the book down softly on the desk beside his tea. “A-anyway, I’ve only got one box for you today. I haven’t been able to get through my usual amount. It just seems stupid, y’know?” He began to pace, more irritable than Martin had seen him over the past few days. “It’s such useless busy work. And then I get distracted, and I have to work on the _real_ ones at night, and I never sleep anymore and it’s like Elias _wants_ me to feel like shit-”

“Okay, okay,” Martin placated, putting a calming hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You don’t have to give me a certain amount. Remember, I don’t have a real job, anyway?” He joked, hoping it would make Jon smile- and he did, albeit a weak one. He hated to see the man stressed, and lately Elias always seemed to be the cause of it. At the thought of the man, Martin was struck by an idea that might help relieve Jon’s stress. “Can you show me where you keep the fake ones?”

Jon looked at him curiously, but acquiesced, leading him over to a few desks near the middle of the stacks and gesturing. “These are the ones I haven’t gotten to.”

“Alright.” Martin made his way over to the first desk and promptly scattered one of the tall piles with a swipe of his hand. Jon gaped at him, and Martin repeated the action with another stack. “This is what you used to do, right? Before Elias told you to stop.”

“Y-yes, it is, but-”

“This is actually quite fun. I can see the appeal.” Martin winked, growing bolder. “C’mon. Show me what you’ve got.”

Jon cautiously walked over, stepping carefully over the disturbed papers on the floor. He looked down at a stack and back up at Martin, still considering. He nodded back at him encouragingly, and SLAP! The pile tumbled to the floor with a flourish, and Jon yelped at the sound, grinning wildly. He did it again, growing more confident with each whack of his hand and letting out little exclamations as Martin clapped along. He joined in himself, and soon the desks were cleared and the floor covered in paper. A horrendous mess that they’d probably have to clear up later.

But Jon was smiling so widely at Martin, hair mused and eyes dancing. And Martin would clean up a thousand messes to keep that smile on his face.

His phone trilled, startling the both of them from their reverie. Martin took it out of his pocket to see a text from Sasha.

**Sasha James (11:33):** _Hey there Stranger (jk!!) We’re having trivia night this Friday at the pub down the street and you should deff come! It’s a real hoot. Tim says he’ll buy you a drink, if that entices you!!! And maybe you could invite a certain someone???? No pressure!!!! ;) <3 ;) _

“Is it important?” Jon asked, looking nervously at him. “I don’t want to keep you from anything-” Martin took his chance.

“Any chance you’re free this Friday? There’s this trivia night down at the pub...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter- meant to get it done by Monday, but had to take care of some pesky personal issues first. But here it is! I'm excited to write the next one- it's a scene I had in my head for this AU way early on.
> 
> Let me know how you liked it! Comments and kudos always appreciated.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ceaseless Watcher, Turn Your Gaze on These Wretched Shenanigans.
> 
> Martin, Jon & Co. enjoy a Night of Trivia.

Jon had outright said no to the invitation and promptly ushered him out of the Archives. Martin tried not to take it personally; he was rather used to the blunt nature of the man by now. He tried again on Friday, promising Sasha he’d manage to get him there come hell or high water. Jon was, of course, less than enthusiastic.

“Are you sure? That you’d want to bring me, as your- well, to meet all of your friends? At once?” Jon wouldn’t meet his eyes, twiddling his thumbs and shuffling his feet. “I just don’t want to intrude.”

“Jon, it’s fine!” Sure, it was a bit of a crowd, but it wasn’t like they were complete strangers to Jon- and he said as much. “Again, you _know_ Daisy. And I’m sure you’ve interacted with the research team and Basira, at least in a work capacity, right?”

“Well, yes, but not _directly_. Just through notes and such. And some accidental Knowing, of course.”

“Accidental?” Martin raised a dubious eyebrow.

Jon rolled his eyes in response and crossed his arms, which Martin found very endearing. “Okay, not _always_ accidental. I have to Know what I’m dealing with, in these situations! Tim can be _very_ biased when it comes to Stranger statements.”

“Alright,” he agreed. “But we’re getting off topic. You’ll love trivia! You’ve got a distinct advantage, so you shouldn’t be afraid of losing or anything. Plus, you should get to know your congregation- y’know, outside of work or spooky statement-giving. They’ll love you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin,” Jon’s voice had gone quiet at his words. “I’m not there to _love_ or _like._ My job is to channel the Knowledge of the Ceaseless Watcher and Share its Glory with Our Followers. I’m not here to make _friends_.” The lines sounded mechanical coming from Jon’s mouth, almost rehearsed. Martin did not like them one bit.

“That sounds like something Elias would say,” he responded defiantly. “And I’m sure he said it. And if you _really_ want to piss him off, you should come.” _C’mon_. He could see Jon considering his words- Martin knew that irritating his supervisor was practically the man's raison d’etre.

“…I don’t like crowds.”

“You give statements every Sunday in front of a hundred or more people,” Martin reasoned. “This will be much easier than that. Besides, I’ll be with you the whole time!” He leaned forward, taking a chance and putting a hand on Jon’s arm. Jon stared at the spot he touched, unmoving. “It’ll be fun…” he wheedled, deploying his last tactic. “And I don’t want to go without you.”

“Alright, alright!” Martin whooped as Jon shook his arm off, the gesture more exasperated than irritated. “Stop your noise. I’ll go.”

 _Score!_ “I’ll be down around five thirty, then? We can walk over together, it’s right down the street.”

The man hesitated. “Actually, there’s a few things I need to get done. Uh, urgent business I’m afraid.” Jon slipped his phone out of his pocket, something Martin had never actually seen him do in person. “It starts at seven, but I’ll meet you there at six-thirty or so?”

“Um, okay,” Martin agreed, unsure of how to respond. _Did Jon not want to be seen with him?_ “You know how to get there, right?”

Jon stared, then promptly turned his back to him, typing furiously on his phone. _Right. Dumb question._

“Be seeing you, then. Oh, and Jon?” The man turned around, eyes barely meeting his. “I’m really glad you’re coming.”

The Archivist flushed ( _what a lovely color on him)_ and turned back around, mumbling something as he fled to his office. The whir of his tape recorder became softer with every step, until Martin could no longer hear it as he shut his office door.

He smirked to himself, feeling quite proud of his move. _Mission accomplished._

* * *

“Martin,” Sasha enthused, slamming a hand down on the sticky bar table with an almost manic grin. “You’re amazing. You’re an angel. I can’t believe we’re going to be playing trivia with _the_ Archivist!”

Martin took a sip of his drink and smiled demurely. Tim joined in on the praise.

“I have _such_ good taste in friends,” he stated. “I Knew it as soon as I saw you- that man is _going places!”_

“Don’t think that’s true, but thanks anyway.” He could feel himself growing hot under the praise, but didn’t want to get too ahead of himself. “Besides, Jon isn’t here yet. He still might…bail, or something.” _Christ, I hope not._

“Nah, he’ll be here,” Daisy cut in, voice neutral. “I saw him making some… _preparations_ , shall we say.” Basira snorted, taking a sip of her club soda. “Gotta have back up, that’s for sure.”

“Not sure what you mean there, but okay,” Martin bit out. _Back up?_

“We’re going to be _unstoppable_ ,” Sasha growled, startling the table. “We’re going to _decimate_ these teams. I’m going to Gertrude Robinson this fucking bar. I can’t _wait_ to get that crown.”

“Sasha,” Tim replied, taken aback. “We win almost every time.”

“Yes,” she agreed, turning to face him with an intense glint in her eyes. “But this time we’re going to win _even harder_.”

* * *

As promised, Jon arrived at six thirty looking absolutely overwhelmed. Martin sat up straighter, waving to the man and his…companion?

Jon had brought Gerard Keay.

 _Um, what_?

They walked together, arm-in-arm ( _I thought he only did that with me,_ Martin muttered internally) as a hush fell over the bar. Gerard was wearing his customary chains and steel-toed boots, and Jon had taken off his sweater vest, two buttons left open on his crisp white shirt. Martin could see the small eye charm resting in the hollow of his throat and suddenly needed to cough. Whispers could be heard throughout the room.

“Is that _Jonathan Sims?”_

“-Fucking _Gerry_ , he’s a legend-"

“I didn’t know Elias let him out of the Archives-"

Gerry seemed to bask in the attention, letting out a wide grin as he caught Martin’s eye and moseyed over to the table. Jon had the opposite reaction, shrinking into the man’s side and desperately trying to avoid any eye contact.

“That’s fucking _Gerard Keay_ , Martin!” Sasha whispered intently. “I’m almost drunk on the power. _We. Can’t. Lose._ ”

“I know,” Martin supplied sourly. “I’ve met him.”

“You didn’t tell us that!” Tim swiveled around to face him. “Why do _you_ get to meet all of the exciting people? You didn’t know _shit_ before you came here.” His face grew apologetic. “Sorry, that came out wrong. Also, I didn’t know him and Jon were…dating?” His voice went up at the end of the question, as if testing the waters with Martin.

“They aren’t,” Daisy stated definitively. “They’re just friends.”

“Looks a bit _cozy_ to me,” Tim replied, dubious.

“He just does that,” Martin interjected. “With everyone, I guess. Doesn’t like crowds.” _I’m not special._

“That’s precious,” Tim cooed. “Look at his little shirt. Is he carrying a tape recorder in that satchel? And the _bun_. I have to ask him where he got those hair clips-”

“ _Shut up_ , Tim! You’ll embarrass him!”

“Nice to see you again, Martin!” Gerard boomed, pushing Jon to sit next to Martin in the booth. He soon followed, and the three of them (plus Sasha) were squished together nicely, Jon practically in Martin’s lap. _Dear Lord._

“Um, h-hello,” Jon said quietly to the table. “I hope you don’t mind I brought my Gerry. Uh, I mean-" he began to stutter as Gerard snickered. “My friend. Gerry.”

“Nice to actually see your face up close and personal!” Tim had dialed up the charm, holding out his hand. “And what a _lovely_ one it is. I’m the man you’ve been leaving little love notes for!” Jon froze while taking his hand, and Daisy let out a bark of laughter.

“Sorry, sorry,” Tim let him go and raised his hands apologetically. “I can come on a bit strong for the uninitiated.” And yet, he turned to Gerry and gave him a sultry grin. “Tim Stoker, gentleman and scholar. _Pleasure_ to make your acquaintance.” Gerry took his hand and shook it vigorously, grin never fading.

“Happy to be here,” he replied, immediately signaling the waitress for two rounds. “Gotta support my mate in his… _endeavors_.”

“ _Gerry_ ,” Jon ground out, turning away to face Martin and favoring him with a hesitant smile. _God he’s close right now_. “Hi, Martin.”

“Hi, Jon.” The smile grew brighter, and Jon’s face flushed as he looked back down at his lap.

Sasha had remained suspiciously quiet as she stared at the two men with wide eyes, her earlier bravado gone. “Sasha!” she shouted out awkwardly into the still too-quiet bar. “Sorry, I’m Sasha. Sasha James.” She gave them a wide grin. “It’s so _awesome_ to meet you two.”

“Sasha James!” Jon perked up, meeting her eyes with a new fervor. “I know your research. It’s very thorough and detailed. I’m always happy to get the statements you’ve worked on.” He gave her a genuine smile, and Sasha stuttered out her thanks. _Look at us! Making friends!_

“Ahem!” A loud cough echoed throughout the room, and the bar grew quiet. Jessica, who Martin had managed to avoid for the better part of two weeks, was now at the front of the room, seated on a stool next to a small table. She nervously eyed their corner of the room. “Welcome to all our familiar friends, and, uh- _esteemed guests_.” She made an awkward sort of bow and Gerry and Tim began to snicker. “This is shaping up to be an extra-special night, it seems!” No response, and Jon fidgeted next to him. Martin leaned a bit into his side, and Jon smiled up at him, clearly appreciating the grounding presence.

“Of course, we’ll be playing for our usual prize, the Watcher’s Crown!” A mocking ‘ _ooh!’_ from the audience as she displayed a crudely made, discolored crown made of cardboard. Googly eyes had been glued on to every point, with pom poms attached to the end. It was horrific to Behold. Jon made a visceral noise of disgust.

“We’ll have our usual teams of six, so please write down your team names now and submit them up here!” Another nervous glance to their corner. Martin counted seven at their table.

“It’s not fair if the Archivist plays!” A brave voice piped up. “He Knows everything!”

“Sorry about him, Archivist!” Jessica rushed to speak over the man, clearly afraid of causing offense. “But we _can_ only have six players to a team, so…”

“She’s right,” Jon agreed quietly. “I probably shouldn’t have come.”

“No!” both Sasha and Martin replied, for two different reasons. Sasha continued, “We _have_ to win!”

Gerry broke up the murmur of the crowd with his booming voice, rivaling Tim's in volume. “Jon should judge!” He turned to the table. “And I can be your sixth. I’m fucking _great_ at trivia.” He gave Sasha a reassuring grin that she couldn’t help but return.

The voices at the bar murmured their assent, though Jessica seemed to be put out. “Well, alright. Archivist, if you’d like to come up here.” She gestured to her stool as if it were a throne. “And we can begin as soon as we’ve got the team names!” The bar patrons began to whisper furiously, devious smiles on their faces. _Uh oh_ , Martin thought. _This doesn’t look good._

Jon was having none of it, looking for all the world like a deer in headlights. “Absolutely _not,_ no thank you, I’ll be leaving now-“

“Nope,” Gerry replied easily, bodily hauling him from his seat to stand at the foot of the table. “Up you get. C’mon, you _love_ judging people.”

“But it's too many people!” he whispered back, looking to anyone at the table for help.

“There’s like _thirty_ people here, Jon,” Daisy replied. “You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want to!” A foot stamp, and Martin couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. Jon eyed him furiously, mouthing the words ‘traitor.’

“Oh Jon, you’ll be fine!” Sasha had clearly gotten over being starstruck. “If you get nervous, just give us a wave! We’ll cheer you on. Tim, give him a shot.”

“It would be my honor,” Tim said gravely, handing Jon a tequila shot that had been lined up at the table moments before.

“Jon, you don’t have to-yup, alright, he’s downed it. Good job, champ.” Gerry thumped him on the back as Jon wiped his mouth off on his sleeve, looking like a battle-hardened soldier. A little fear crept back into his eyes, and he made one last plea.

“What if I can’t read their handwriting?” Even while the words came out of his mouth, Jon seemed to know the argument was weak.

Basira finally piped in, “Uh, can’t you just Know what they meant to write?”

Jon’s fate was sealed. Martin watched as he slowly approached the front table as if marching to a plank. The rest of his table had taken to chanting Jon’s name- it caught on in the bar until a cheer erupted as the man took his seat, clearly flustered and uncomfortable.

_Oh Jon. Godspeed._

* * *

While the table brainstormed increasingly ridiculous team names, Martin watched as Jon and Jessica seemed to have an irate conversation. Jon was scowling and gesturing at the papers, and Jessica had her hands out in supplication, trying to compromise. _Good luck with that_ , Martin smirked to himself. _‘Compromise’ and Jon don’t really go together._

“Write _legibly_ , Tim!” Martin whispered viciously when he looked back at the sheet of paper and was met with a glare from the man.

A few minutes later, the team names were turned in and passed over to Jon, who looked them over with a critical eye. Jessica helpfully whispered something in his ear, but he flinched away, muttering what looked like ‘piss off.’ _Yeah, fuck you, Jessica!_

“Well, you all Know the rules. We will do five rounds of five questions each. You will write down your answers and I will tally them up at the end of each round.” Jon suddenly spoke with the confidence of the Archivist on Sunday, tending to his congregation. The small crowd seemed to sit up straighter, at attention. “And the teams we have competing are…” A slight pause, though Jon’s face betrayed nothing.

“ _T_ _he Watcher’s Clowns._ Oh, that’s rather clever.” A small cheer from table one.

“ _Who’s Watching Me? (Answer: It’s Elias. Stop Watching Me, Elias)_. I’m going to shorten that one to Stop Watching Me, Elias. I share the sentiment.” A louder cheer, and Jon smiled.

“ _Gertrude’s Flaming Redheads_?” Jon looked over at table three with a critical eye. “Only one of you has red hair.”

“Know that, did you?” Came a jeering voice from the right of the room. Jon flushed in embarrassment and Martin’s chest ached.

“Oi! Fuck off!” Gerry yelled, whipping his head around to stare daggers at the general direction of the voice. Any laughter was cut off. Martin was grateful, and a bit put out. _Gerry to the rescue, I guess._

“Uh, _Ceaseless Watcher_ -“ Jon’s eyes looked heavenward, and he let out a put-upon sigh. “ _Behold this Ass.”_ Tim and Daisy whooped loudly while Gerry pounded the table. “ _Really,_ Tim?” Martin groaned. _Should’ve paid more attention_.

“For the record,” Basira unhelpfully supplied, “That wasn’t the one I would have gone with.”

“And our final team… _Steve’s Broken_ _Light Bulbs_.” The named team cheered from the corner. Jon, looking a bit more confident, joined in on the feeling. “Yeah, fuck Steve.”

This started a round of “Fuck Steve!” chanting, and Jon clapped in delight. Martin’s heart fluttered, glad to see him having fun. _This was a good idea._ The Archivist cleared his throat and looked upward, eyes flashing green as he began the round. A hush fell over the crowd and they leaned towards him. _Look ma, no paper!_ Martin thought somewhat hysterically.

“In what year was the Magnus Institute- oh for fuck’s sake, _really_?” A titter rose from the crowd at Jon’s clear irritation. He shot a glare at Jessica, who was quick to defend herself. “We like to keep it simple for the first round! Just to get everyone warmed up-“

“I’ll only tolerate this once, Jessica,” Jon sniffed, taking up a pen and marking off the questions he disliked. “To continue in this vein is an insult to everyone in the congregation, including myself.”

“Yeah, Jessica!” came a drunken voice. “A fucking insult!”

“We’re _intelligent_!” Sasha. “Don’t condescend! To me!”

“Settle! Settle!” The woman in question squeaked, attempting to quiet the crowd. It didn’t work.

“Enough,” Jon intoned quietly. It did work. “Jessica, fetch me a bourbon. Neat. It’s high time this _actually_ started.”

She scurried away to grant the request, and Jon cleared his throat for the next question. “How many cameras does the Magnus Institute have on site?”

“Oh boy, we’re really in it now,” Tim groaned, putting his head in his hands. Other teams reacted similarly. “He’s not playing around.”

“Three thousand, eight hundred and ninety two,” both Gerry and Daisy whispered, and Sasha grabbed the paper from Tim to write it down disbelievingly. “How on earth do you know _that_?”

They shared a secret smile. “Let’s just say we took a good look at the security system’s _blind spots_ quite recently,” Daisy raised her glass and the two toasted. Tim gaped at the two of them and noticed Martin’s smile as well. “So it was _you two_ \- and _Martin-_ “

“Hey, I had nothing to do with it,” Martin denied, still smirking. “I was just…made of aware of it, that’s all.”

“Martin, I hope you remember me when you take over this institute. Think of the man who helped you get there,” Tim pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Remember your _roots_.”

Sasha shushed him as Jon began to speak again. “What year were the tunnels under the institute rediscovered, and when were they opened for private tours?”

“1965. 1997.” This time from Basira. Sasha copied the answer diligently as Gerry rolled his eyes. “Ah, yes. The Homeless Leitner Situation of 1996. Gertrude told me all about that.”

“Is it true you beat up Jurgen Leitner?” Tim asked eagerly. Gerry shrugged and gave a mysterious smile in response. Tim muttered “Nice!” under his breath.

The questions came fast and quick until the end of the round, and Martin was happy to find that they’d gotten all of them correct and were currently tied with _Steve’s Broken Light Bulbs_.

“ _Watcher’s Clowns_ , your score is abysmal,” Jon informed them, no change in expression. “Do better.”

“Fucking hell, I _love_ this,” Sasha cackled. “Can he come every time? Martin, tell your boyfriend we love him.”

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend, Sasha!” he whispered furiously. “And I’d appreciate if you’d keep your voice down!”

“Haven’t you guys gone on like, five dates?” Daisy.

“We just went to _tea!_ ” Martin found his voice raising an octave, at least. “We aren’t dating!”

“You should probably tell Jon that,” Gerry muttered, sinking in his seat and whistling lowly. Tim passed around another round of shots, and Martin drowned his sorrows in quick succession, not quite picking up on Gerry’s words.

Martin looked back over to Jon- he seemed much more relaxed, and even gave Jessica a smile as she refilled his empty drink. Martin waved, and Jon favored him with an unexpectedly fond gaze. If he didn’t know the man, he’d say it was almost _sappy_. He ordered another beer.

Drinks were passed around, and questions were answered, though not always correctly. Jon’s questions were getting increasingly odd and specific (maybe even targeted), though he insisted they were ‘based in fact’ and ‘well-Known.’ His looseness corresponded with the succession of drinks that were helpfully placed in his hand by Jessica, and Martin was starting to get a bit worried. It didn’t seem like the Ceaseless Watcher helped any when it came to alcohol tolerance.

“This is an _easy_ one- what is the shittiest fear?”

The Dark. Everyone answered correctly.

“What-" a hiccup “-was the _worst_ letter Elias read aloud during the Great Archive Drought of 2015? This is an _objective_ question and there is a-" another hiccup “ _correct_ answer!”

This answer to this one involved a Jonathan Fanshawe, and Sasha fist pumped at her victory.

Finally, they had reached the end. Jon was clutching an empty martini glass, slumped over his table with his glasses off and hair askew. Martin was half tempted to ferry him out, but he rallied for one last question and cleared his throat.

“What did Gertrude Robinson leave in the confessional on her last day as Head Archivist?”

A murmur rose through the crowd again. Everyone seemed to be perplexed, and even Sasha was scratching her head.

“C-4. No, matches. No, a lighter. No-"

“Tim, could you please shut the fuck up? I’m trying to think!”

“Gerry, you’ve got to have some insight on this one-“

“Nope,” he replied, flicking his own lighter on and off. “Haven’t the foggiest.”

Sasha’s gaze locked on the lighter and she gave him an excited smile. “Oh, is that a hint?”

“No,” Gerry put the lighter back in his pocket and stole a mozzarella stick off her plate, chewing obnoxiously.

“Just write that down,” Basira groaned. “It’s as good a guess as any.”

Unsurprisingly, no one answered correctly. Jessica clapped three times to get everyone’s attention and waved the crown in the air. Jon snatched it down and cleared his throat, his next words coming out semi-slurred.

“ _Watcher’s Clowns_ , you came in last. Never recovered after that first round. Sad to see.” Martin was unsure if the glass Jon tipped was on purpose, in the ‘pour one out’ sense, or just bad coordination. “ _Gertrude’s Flaming Redheads_ , fourth. Nothing to write home about.” _Wow, Jon’s not pulling his punches._ " _Stop Watching Me, Elias_ ” a look to the ceiling, here “third. A good try. _Steve’s Broken Light Bulbs_ , a very respectable second. You’ve brought dignity to a name that deserves none.” Jon either blacked out for a brief second or took a dramatic pause. “And our winner for this evening is… _Ceaseless Watcher, Behold this Ass!”_ Jon gave up on coordination, and his glass shattered on the floor.

Their table, however, took this as some sort of Nordic act of celebration and jumped to their feet, screaming at their victory. Daisy and Basira kissed passionately, and Tim, Sasha, and Gerry were locked in a strange, intimate hug that Martin had backed away from in his haste to get to Jon.

“Mah-tin,” Not even an _attempt_ at the ‘r’ sound. “Did you have fun? Did I do good?” Martin slung one of Jon’s arms over his shoulder, dragging him bodily from the stool as the man grinned at him happily, the crown crushed in his other hand. “Mah-tin, you _won_.”

“I did. You did. And yes, again, I did.” He rattled off, both enamored with and concerned for the man in his arms. “Let’s get you over to our table, yeah? Maybe have some water?”

“You’re so _smart_ -" he was cut off by another bout of hiccups as Gerry helped him slide into his seat and took the crown from his arms. Martin held a glass of water with a straw for him to sip, while Sasha happily modeled the crown.

“It looks like shit,” Jon informed her, “but you wear it well.” He reached his arm across the table, and Sasha took it solemnly and replied in turn. “Jon, I _love_ your work.”

“No-" he shook his head and gripped her arm tighter. “I love _your_ work.”

“You’re the best Archivist we’ve ever had-"

“’Gonna give you a _raise,_ Sash-“

“I want a raise!”

“Mm, you too Tim, so good. At work. Just. Th’ best.”

“Okay, okay,” Martin interrupted, leaning Jon against his shoulder so he wouldn’t fall over as he started to slump. “You all love each other. We get it.”

“Don’t be _jealous_ , Mah-tin,” Tim mocked. ‘It’s not a good look on you.”

“I’m not jealous, Tim-"

“ _Y_ _ou totally are-"_

“Shut up, Basira, you’re not involved in this-"

“Don’t tell my girlfriend to shut up, Blackwood, I’ll fucking end you-"

“ _Stop it!”_ A credit card was thrown on the table, hitting Tim sharply in the arm. Jon had rejoined the world of the living and was eyeing them intently until they quieted down. He tapped on the thick black card with one finger, managing to look both imperious and ridiculous.

“Friends don’t _fight_ ,” he told them with a mischievous smile. “Friends buy drinks on Elias’s credit card.”

An uproarious cheer startled the rest of the bar as Jon was anointed with both the Watcher’s Crown and the title of ‘True MVP.’ Sasha outfitted him with her fuzzy brown poncho for his ‘cape.’ And as another round was ordered, Jon fell onto Martin’s shoulder, smiling blearily at him.

"Hey Jon," Martin whispered, leaning back into the man. "What _did_ Gertrude leave in the confessional?"

"No fuck'n clue," Jon hiccuped, closing his eyes and letting out a sleepy yawn. "Jus' made that one up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the folks over on the Magnus Writers Discord and other friends who helped me brainstorm some good team names.
> 
> Really happy to get the gang all together. Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. Comments always appreciated. 
> 
> Until next time!


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words are Exchanged and Statements are Made.

“So, everyone’s in favor of keeping this night going, yeah?” An inebriated cheer answered Gerry’s query. “Cool. I think our Archivist is out for the night, though.” Said Archivist snored peacefully on Martin’s shoulder, as he had for the last thirty minutes. Gerry’s eyes turned to him, flickering with mischief. “I don’t suppose you’d mind taking him home? He’s right around the corner.”

_Wow. The Institute must be paying him well to afford a flat in Central London. Perks of being a cult priest, I guess. Fuck, answer Gerry._ “Uh yeah, of course, I’ll just...get our coats.” He looked down at Jon and froze. Maybe they could just spend the night in the bar, instead?

“I got ‘im, hold on,” Gerry shook the man awake, gently lifting him from Martin’s shoulder so he could move. And he did, quickly. He could hear the two behind him as he searched through the tangle of coats at the front table.

“Ma’tin, where’s Mah-tin?” _That would be Jon_.

“He’ll be back in a sec-” _Gerry._ Jessica interrupted his eavesdropping with a chirping voice, pointing out the correct coats which Martin yanked from her hand ungratefully. He turned around to find Gerry smushing Jon’s face between his hands, bending over to look him in the eye. Ire rose in his chest before he realized Gerry wasn’t in fact trying to kiss him, but speaking slowly and seriously, forcing Jon to listen. Jon nodded with bleary eyes, starting to fully lift out of his doze, and Gerry patted him on the cheek and gave him a grin.

“He’s all yours, big guy,” Jon was passed unceremoniously to Martin’s side with an easy smile and a wave to the rest of the group. Martin blushed and held on tightly to Jon’s side as the man did not seem able to wave goodbye and also remain standing.

“Bye! Love you!” Tim winked, and Sasha blew them a kiss. Daisy settled for salute, Basira for a nod. 

He was not expecting Jon’s slurred reply of “L’ve you too!” but the group certainly seemed to enjoy it.

“C’mon let’s get you home,” he implored gently. “Gerry said it’s not too far?”

“S’not, don’ be _silly,_ you know!” Jon giggled and leaned back, his hair tickling the back of Martin’s arm. “I’ll take ya, though.”

“Sure,” he agreed, following the pull of Jon’s arm and walking into the crisp night air. You couldn’t see the stars in London, of course, but Martin found the night romantic all the same. _Maybe tonight? I can ask him, see if he’s-_

“Mah-tin,” Jon’s voice interrupted his musings, and he found he didn’t mind. “I read your po’try.”

“O-oh,” he stammered, not comfortable with the subject matter. _Nothing like the honesty of the drunk, I suppose._ “You don’t need to-”

“S’actually quite lovely, but so _Lonely._ Are you Lonely, Martin?” _Oh._

“I-I was for a time, actually,” he admitted. It was true, after all. Years spent friendless, with only his mother for company. Sadness was his main muse for many years. “But I don’t think so. Not anymore.” Their walking came to a stop as Jon faced him, face serious and blinking furiously. _Probably trying to keep himself from passing out. Poor thing._

“You should get a cat,” he stated solemnly. “The Lonely can’t get you if you get a cat. And that’s true. The Eye tol’ me so. Right - _hic-_ now.”

Martin’s heart melted at the ridiculous man in front of him. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he replied, a smile in his voice as he urged them forward again. “But I don’t think my building allows pets, unfortunately.”

Jon groaned sympathetically. “Ugh, same! ‘Lias says it’ll get into the archives, cause chaos. As if _I_ couldn’t control _my_ cat-”

“Why would you keep it at the Institute?” Martin was baffled. _Clearly that’s no place for a cat_. “Just keep it at home. You said you live close by, you could always visit during lunch or something.”

“Martin,” Jon said carefully ( _got the R, good job!)_ , his brow furrowed. “I _live_ here.” And yes, there they were. Stopped right in front of the Institute. _Wait, what_?

“You- you _live_ here? In the Archives?” he sputtered. Was there some sort of apartment space he missed? Is this why Jon was so isolated, so... _weird_ , around people? Because he lived under some desk or bookshelf? _How unhealthy!_

“Not in the Archives, that would be stupid.” _Ah yes, how silly of me._ “There’s rooms on the third floor. They’re quite spacious, actually. Not really necessary, but it’s nice t’have room t’pace when I’m not at work.” Jon spoke slowly, as if he were talking to a child. 

“Is this all a part of the package, then? Room and board?” Martin rambled in a high-pitched tone. “Must be nice. My salary’s a pittance in comparison.”

“What are you talking about? They don’t pay me at all.”

“W-What the fuck, Jon?” _What kind of half-baked cult are they running here? And Jon's some sort of what, volunteer? How can he be so calm about all of this?_ “That’s- that’s not _okay_. You should get some sort of stipend, at least, or _something_ -”

“I have th’ credit card,” Jon seemed embarrassed and defensive, shuffling his feet and looking at the ground. “‘Lias pays for most things. But I have everything I need here!” He suddenly leaned in close, on his tip-toes. So close, in fact, that his eyes were slightly crossed. Despite this, Martin still felt an urge to kiss him. _Don’t. Don’t._

“‘Cept a cat,” he whispered gravely to him, as if trusting him with a huge secret. “Need a cat t’kill the spiders.”

His mind blanked from the close contact, and he could only think of one thing to say. 

“You shouldn’t kill spiders. They’re important to the eco-system.” _Wow. Another Hot Tip from Martin Blackwood. Very sexy of you._

Jon rocked back on his heels, frowning. “You like spiders, then?”

“I like a lot of things,” Martin babbled, trying to get the conversation back on track after the several revelations. _C’mon, you can do this._ "I have something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Alright,” Jon blinked, going still. _Here goes-_

“I just wanted-er, I mean- I wanted to ask,” _This is going great_. “-are you allowed- that is, are you permitted-” _Shit._ “-do you like-”

_“Elias,”_ Jon spewed hatefully.

“Er, no,” Martin paused, blindsided. “That’s not what I was going to ask at all.”

“Then please, finish your eloquent statement. I’m on the edge of my seat.”

_Oh._ Elias stood at the steps of the Institute just a foot away, looking at the two of them in clear irritation. For all of his talk- his reassurances to Jon, his ‘fuck Elias’ attitude- he couldn’t say a word in the presence of the man. The weight of his eyes was suffocating, and Martin found himself trembling where he stood.

“Go _‘way_ , Elias!” A stamped foot, and Jon dislodged himself from his arms, swaying worryingly on his own. “Martin is trying to _tell me something!_ ”

“It sounds riveting, but I’m sure it can wait,” Elias drawled, fixing his eyes on Martin. They looked wrong in his face, somehow. “You do have a statement to prepare for Sunday, and it’s getting late.”

“Bugger _off,_ I’m changin’ it!” Jon responded shrilly, waving his hands. His tape recorder seemed to whir harder, almost as if in agreement. “Gotta call Annabelle, let her _know…”_

“I’m sure she’s asleep, as you should be.” Elias sounded like an angry parent disciplining an unruly child. _More like a shitty stepfather_. 

“ _Not_ the boss of me, just _jealous_ because Mah-tin got me cake and you got _none-_ ”

“I’m the very _definition_ of the ‘boss’ of you-”

“Maybe if you were _nicer_ ,” Jon’s words were getting more heated, though his voice was beginning to give out. “Maybe if you listened with your _ears_ instead of watching with your _eyes,_ you’d get cake too-”

“That’s _quite_ enough. Get inside, or-”

“Gonna throw up.” Jon informed them. And he did.

Right onto Elias’s beautiful, freshly-shined shoes. And most of his pants.

* * *

  
  


Martin had stood there, completely paralyzed as Elias dragged Jon off, much to the man’s weak protests. It was like watching a cat drag an unruly kitten by the collar, if said kitten had just vomited all over the steps of the institute. He’d stuttered out a faint goodbye, but wasn’t sure he was heard over the ensuing argument.

Speaking of cats, Jon had been sending him texts non-stop. Giant, fluffy cats, scruffy kittens, and every type in-between. He seemed to make it his personal mission to get Martin a pet. He’d immediately brushed off any questions regarding his likely hangover or his argument with Elias. 

**Jonathan Sims (17:52)** _Never mind all of that. Look at this one. I think he looks like a Ser, don’t you?_

Jon had a propensity for giving cats titles. It was rather charming.

So here he was, Sunday afternoon, fussing over his clothes as if anyone gave a shit. He’d gotten a smart new jumper in a deep navy color that Sasha said was ‘very fetching!’ Jon had been so excited for this statement, so he wanted to look his very best.

**Jonathan Sims (6:23)** _I think this statement will be right up your alley! :)_

Martin would have teased him for the ungodly hour, but he was up as well. He didn’t like to think of the implications of a statement ‘right up his alley.’

On receiving the Stoker Seal of Approval via text, he made his way to the Institute, arriving at a prompt 9:45. Tim and Sasha were in all black lace and clearly the stars of the show, if the people surrounding them were anything to go by. Martin lingered on the outskirts, too shy to actually approach them- but Sasha quickly caught his eye and shooed away the crowd.

“Hey there, lover boy!” She grabbed his arm with a wink. “Are you excited for the Web?”

“Uh, yes?” he replied uncertainly. He glanced over the steps of the institute, taking in their shiny, pristine glow. “Looks like they cleaned up the vomit, then…” he murmured more to himself, though Tim gave him a confused glance.

“I wonder why the change in plan? I was rather looking forward to the Hunt. Daisy must be _very_ upset,” she mused, tapping her chin. Her eyes suddenly brightened. “Or _maybe_ this was the Web’s plan all along! Plucking the strings! How _fascinating…_ ”

“You little conspiracy nut,” Tim patted her on the shoulder fondly as they made their way into the church and their usual row. They walked past a rather mesmerizing table, but Sasha quickly pulled him away before he could get a closer look. 

The services began much in their usual way- doors closing, Elias coming to the pulpit. He studiously ignored Martin’s gaze, a change from the pointed glares he had sent in services’ past. Martin didn’t mind this one bit.

“I apologize for the rather unorthodox switch in plans for today,” he began, ever the bureaucrat. “But the Eye has spoken to our Archivist, and who are we to deny its will?” A murmur of agreement from the crowd. “I trust everyone is fine with a tale from the Web?”

_“Mother of Puppets.”_ A droll intonation answered him.

“Indeed. I’ll let our Archivist take it from here-”

“ _Under the Great Eye- Vigilo. Opperior. Audio!”_

And Jon. Dazzling, wonderful Jon took his stage and eyed his captive audience. The click of a tape recorder. A wink in Martin’s direction.

_A wink in Martin’s direction._

Sasha gasped and Tim shook her arm with excitement, both of them looking to Martin’s beet-red face for his reaction.

“ _Boyfriends!”_ Sasha whispered happily as they leaned forward. 

“Statement of Darren Harlow, regarding a failed psychology experiment at the University of Surrey. Original Statement Given on the 18th of November, 2010. Committed to Memory by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Witnessed by the Congregation of the Great Eye.”

A flash of green, and they were away. “Statement Begins.”

“ _Things always seem so obvious in retrospect. That experiment was always a terrible idea. Even at the time, I remember thinking it sounded like something out of a horror movie.”_

A horror movie indeed. Martin watched through the eyes of the cleaner as the experiments at the University of Surrey’s Psychology Department unfolded. Poor Annabelle Cane, forced to experience her worst fear through the unease of others. And the _spiders._ On projectors, on cobwebs- and soon, on her. _In_ her. Martin could feel them crawling on his skin, whispering. She changed, and Martin found himself changing with her. _Too many legs_. He could feel Jon’s whisper at his ear in a way he never had before, breath hot on his neck. 

_“It was like a hundred tiny, scurrying legs inside my skull, moving and scampering through my mind.”_

A head full of cobwebs. _Indeed,_ Jon whispered back and Martin jolted into awareness. Unable to escape the web his Archivist wove for him- the statement hadn’t finished yet. Jon continued to tug him along, leading him to the close. 

“ _As far as I know, Annabelle Cane is still out there. I’m keeping my distance from anything even remotely spider-related, though. I somehow managed to live through one horror movie. I have no intention of going looking for another.”_

Statement ends.

His mind couldn’t focus on the words coming out of Jon’s mouth in closing. There were _spiders_ on his skin. He itched frantically at his arms, only to see that nothing was there. Nothing at all.

He felt the heavy weight of eyes on his back. It didn’t feel like the gaze of the Watcher, or even the Beholding. It felt like something else entirely. 

_Why in the hell would he think this was ‘up my alley?’_ He thought semi-hysterically. 

The tape recorder clicked off, but Jon hadn’t left the pulpit. Instead, his eyes looked directly at Martin, and they were still glowing that uncanny, beautiful green. He was smiling- so hopeful, like an animal waiting to be praised for the dead bird they left at the door. Martin didn’t want this dead bird. Who would? But he parroted the smile back, and Jon’s grew wider in return. 

A hand came down on the Archivist’s shoulder. Elias. The man finally met his eyes.

And he was smiling too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! How ominous.
> 
> As you can see, there's now an end in sight. Hooray! But as you can also see, I've added the caveat marking it as a series. I have quite a few ideas for this universe, so I don't think I'm going to be done with it when this story ends. I've got ideas for bits of a sequel. Another for Jon's point of view and behind the scenes snippets from this story (meetings with Gerry, Elias, maybe some vandalism for flavor). I also have some ideas for one-shots that are maybe outside of the main story, little bits that take place before Martin arrives. I dunno, there are a lot of ideas percolating in this lil brain. Let me know if you'd be interested in something like that- don't want to overstay my welcome if it seems a bit stale!
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading. Any comments or kudos greatly appreciated, and I usually respond the day before I post a chapter.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Jon have a Talk. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

Mental breakdowns were nothing new for Martin Blackwood. Spending a day or two in a whirlwind of competing thoughts and no idea how to address them was just a typical weekend for him. And so Martin spent the next twenty four hours deciding on how to approach Jon and politely ask what the hell was going on. Without jeopardizing their friendship. Or accidentally insulting him. Nobody would call Martin an eloquent man. He was much better putting thoughts on paper, not extemporaneously. He needed a plan of action.

Trouble was, plans were never really his forte. 

So instead he panicked. Yes, this was something he could do. Why were startlingly big, many eyed spiders popping up in his flat more often that usual? Was it just some after-effect of that statement he was unable to shake off? Was Annabelle there, in the audience, listening to her trauma being regurgitated by the Eye? Did she care?

Why did he care?

What was Jon trying to convey here? Why did he send him an inexplicable text that afternoon, filled with spider emojis and what looked to be wingdings?

_What the fuck was going on?_ There were several choices.

  1. Jon thought this was healthy, normal communication with a friend and didn’t realize how fucked up it was. 
  2. Elias wanted him dead and that death will be via Jonathan Sims, the Archivist and Resident Spooky Hot Priest of the Eye.
  3. Martin joined a cult and was in way over his head.
  4. All of the above.  
  




  
Four seemed like a solid choice. 

He decided he was taking Jon to lunch tomorrow, not tea. This called for a more direct approach. If they wanted to remain friends, and maybe something more, he would have to put everything out on the table. He was going to ask his questions and get his answers, no interruptions. Finally set the record straight, get them on the same page, and have a nice meal while doing it. Simple as that.

Unfortunately, things were rarely that simple.

* * *

“Lunch? Not tea?”

Martin nodded, determined on his course of action. “Yes, Jon. So we can talk properly.” 

“O-okay! Let me get my coat!” A smile, and he was off, quickly returning. The whir of his tape recorder helped calm Martin’s racing heart. “Everything’s alright, right?” Jon blurted, his brow furrowed as he took Martin’s arm. “Did I- did I do something wrong?” _No. Yes. Maybe. I’m not fucking sure._

“No, no!” Martin rushed to reassure him, though it felt a bit like a lie. Or at least adjacent to one. It wasn’t exactly true- Martin was uncomfortable and confused, but not mad. And he didn’t want to start their lunch off on the wrong foot. Best to be diplomatic about these sorts of things. Keep a clear head, and clear words will follow! “I just want to have an actual conversation, that’s all! Have some time to- to get to know each other, yeah?”

“Alright,” Jon didn’t look completely convinced, though his face relaxed a bit. “I think you know me at this point, right? That’s not to say I mind talking! I like talking to you, Martin.”

It felt like Martin had a sketch of Jon; bits and pieces here and there that helped him fill in the blanks, but no clue into how his mind worked the way it did. He managed to surprise and shock him at every turn. Martin didn’t mind surprises- liked them, in fact. But Jon was a darker mystery. He wasn’t afraid of him, but he was very afraid of the implications of what he revealed. And the complication of being 'the Archivist' and all that entailed. 

Maybe Jon needed more guidance? Structured conversations? Every time they talked it seemed a new revelation popped up that baffled him further and only gave him more questions. The Eye probably didn’t help; Jon said everything like it made perfect sense in his head and as if it were easy to follow his logic. The Eye in one ear and Elias in the other- what was it like? Was it possible for him to even have a relationship?

Martin found them a private corner in a discreet restaurant a little out of his price range. He justified it by the importance of the occasion- if he cleared the air, he might be able to ask the question he meant to ask on Friday night, sans Elias and vomit. If they understood each other, Martin could move forward. Be brave for once in his miserable life.

They made their way to the place mostly in silence; nervous on Martin’s end and companionable on Jon’s. It was a bit of a farther walk, but it helped Martin gather his thoughts, something he desperately needed to do. When they arrived, Jon’s eyes lit up as he took in the menu and Martin mentally congratulated himself on the good choice. “Should we get the tasting menu? Oh, maybe with the wine pairing?” Jon asked eagerly. Martin balked at the price, hesitating for just a moment too long; “I’ll pay! Elias won’t mind.”

_I really don’t think that’s true._ “Er, alright. Maybe without the wine pairings, though? I have a bit of a headache.” That also wasn’t true, but he had seen Jon once he had a few drinks in him, and he didn’t want to have this conversation with someone who likely wouldn’t remember it.

“That’s fine!” Jon gave him that smile again and he almost forgot what they came here for. _Right. Here we go._

“So about that statement,” he hesitated on the wording, wanting to be as careful as possible. “Annabelle Cane? The er, spider one?”

“Yes!” Jon’s eyes flashed green for a quick second, for what reason Martin couldn’t tell. It put him more on edge. “It’s rather unorthodox to switch things out last minute, but Elias came round to it. Even thought it was a good idea, in the end! Of course, anything for you. You like spiders, right? That’s what you said?” _Elias?_ His involvement always seemed to make things worse for Martin. For all Jon said of hating the man, he still talked as if he were a very important figure in his life. Which, Martin supposed he was. But he was so _toxic,_ and _wrong-_ why did Jon still listen to him? Why did his opinion matter, and what was his game? 

It was clear now that Jon switched the statement because of some one-off comment from him; it was both flattering and unnerving that he thought Martin would want this. Jon was so wrapped up in this world of terror and trauma that Martin had no awareness of until now. He still wasn’t sure he liked this part of him. But it’s who Jon was, so he could at least try to understand it.

“I mean _yes,_ but that wasn’t really the point of that statement, was it?” Jon had to see that at the very least. “The Web- Sasha’s told me about that one. Manipulation, control, addiction - that’s really heavy stuff, Jon! It’s not exactly my cup of tea. And it probably shouldn’t be yours, either.” The words sounded condescending as soon as they came out of his mouth, and Martin wished he could take them back if only to phrase it in a better way. “It was nice that you were thinking of me, for sure! But maybe we should talk about things like this, think more critically-” _Think more ‘critically,’ what are you, his English teacher? God, this isn’t coming out well._

That much was clear. A brief look of hurt flashed across Jon’s face before it was schooled into something neutral and colder. Perhaps even a bit angry. “All I do is _think_ , Martin. That’s my job. And I was _thinking_ of you when I did that, but clearly you don’t appreciate it. I’ll refrain in the future.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Martin bit out, beginning to get a bit frustrated. “I’m sorry, I like talking to you, I really do, but I’m new to this sort of thing, y’know? The whole-”

“I’m new to it too!” Jon rushed to say, his face softening. _New? He’s the Archivist, for Christ’s sake._ “But we can figure it out together, right? I’m not very good with people, I know, but I hope you’ll be patient. And maybe let me know when I go too far. I’m afraid I’m still not sure what I did wrong, but I’m willing to learn!” As ever, Jon didn’t seem to be on the same page as him. 

People, he’s talking about people. Martin nodded as if satisfied, but he still wanted to elucidate his hesitance on the ‘fear entity’ of it all, though it definitely was a sore subject for Jon. A conversation that needed more time. And he looked so determined to get it right that Martin hadn’t the heart to critique him. 

So he changed course. 

“I uh, have a weird sort of question. Not to change the topic or anything.”

“Change all you want!” A bright smile. _Fuck. Okay._

“The whole Gertrude and Agnes thing-” Jon’s face blanched, as if the topic were distasteful. “-she was kicked out of the church, right? Was that for- well, because she was dating someone? Dating Agnes? Are you, er, not allowed to do that sort of thing?”

Jon leveled him with an incredulous stare. “What the hell are you talking about, Martin? You’re not making any sense.” _Yeah, that tracks._ “Of course there’s no rule against that. I mean, what is this then?” He gestured to the table. “We aren’t bloody _Catholics,_ jeeze.” _If only it were that easy. You could at least write down your rules somewhere for the uninitiated._ “She left of her own accord. Of course, she’s not welcome back. But that’s mostly because of the arson.”

“But Sasha said- well, not to be a gossip, but she said you don’t _do_ that sort of thing. Am I overstepping? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything-”

“Oh,” Jon replied softly, his face giving nothing away and Martin, for the life of him, couldn’t read what was going on in that mind. He looked down at his lap, blushing before he spoke. “I suppose now’s as good a time as any. I mean, I guess we’re at that level. I’m not really sure how _Sasha_ got that information, or what gives her the right to go around saying it, but it’s... _fine._ I’m asexual. It’s not something I’m ashamed of, or trying to hide. So... yes, I guess I don’t do that sort of thing. If she’s referring to what I think she is.” Jon looked up at him through his lashes, and Martin had no response to the confession. _You should be the one to ‘think critically’ next time, Blackwood._ He didn’t mean to push him to come out at all, this wasn’t what he wanted. Probably wasn’t what _Jon_ wanted. Jon took it in stride as he continued. “I hope that won’t be a problem in our relationship? Maybe I should have told you before we started dating? I’m sorry.”

_Before we started dating. What?_

Oh. Oh. 

_Oh._

Martin was an idiot. A spectacularly bumbling idiot. The looks, the words, the _teasing._ Sasha and Gerry and Daisy and Tim. They’d _meant_ what they said. The teas, the lunch, the questions. Did he forget what it was like to have friends? Normal conversations? Christ, had he really been so out of the dating scene that he forgot the _signs?_ Jon thought they were dating. Of course Jon thought they were _fucking dating._

Were they dating?

“Uh, sorry- I’m just-” Jon’s face began to fall. Clearly he’d been silent for too long. “Did you-did you think we were dating?” That came out wrong. That came out very, very wrong. “I didn’t mean to say it like that- I’m sorry, I’m so stupid-”

Jon’s had frozen, his eyes welling up with a mixture of embarrassment and utter defeat. For the first time in their many conversations, the tape recorder clicked off, deafening in its silence. And Martin knew the damage was done. 

“No, no. I’m- I’m the stupid one. I’m sorry. I have to go.” In a split second, he was out of his chair. _Fucking say something! Say anything! Go after him!_ His mouth sputtered, and he called out the only thing that came to mind- “We-we could be dating!” to an empty seat. He was already gone. A waiter hovered awkwardly at their table, and the patrons of the establishment were staring at him blankly. _Fuck fuck fuck._

For one brief, shining moment, Martin apparently had a boyfriend. 

Trouble is, he didn’t think he had one anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. Oops. Let's hope it gets fixed soon. After all, only a few chapters left!
> 
> I kid. I don't like cliffhangers, especially angst-y ones. But there will be some fall out, that's for sure.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! As always, love to see your comments.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Attempts are made.

“I’ve called you all here,” Martin began gravely. “Because I think I fucked up.”

Tim cheerfully pushed a pint towards him and gave him a wink. “Well, I think I fucked Gerry.”

Martin blinked.

“Excuse me,” Sasha scoffed. “I think we _both_ fucked Gerry.” They exchanged a spirited high-five, but Martin couldn’t focus on the new influx of information beyond the name _Gerry._

“Gerry, Gerry! Right, I need to talk to him,” he clapped his hands together, distracting Sasha and Tim from celebrating their latest conquest. Tim’s face went serious as he took in Martin’s flustered and odd demeanor. 

“Whoa whoa, Mart-o! What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” His look grew interested. “Oh, _have you?”_

“No, I just-”

“You’re not going to be able to reach Gerry this week,” Sasha informed him. “He’s on Leitner-related business in the Balkans. Incommunicado. You know, the usual.”

“I need a Jon authority! _Fuck!_ ” Martin swore desperately, the other two looking taken aback. “Because I think I just broke up with him.”

It was Tim and Sasha’s turn to blink. Which they did, in a frightening unison. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It all happened so fast!” Martin felt his drink spill onto the table as he gestured wildly, but he paid it no mind. “One second we were talking about that spider statement, and then we were talking about the Catholics _-”_

“Why would you bring the Catholics into it, Martin?” Tim asked incredulously. “That _never_ ends well.”

Martin waved his hand in dismissal. “Never mind, that’s not the point. Well, I asked him if he was allowed to date because, y’know, Gertrude, and then all that stuff you said about him _not doing that_ and then he came out and then he said we were dating and then I asked him if he thought we were dating and then-yeah, he left, and now I think we’re not anymore.” He let out a heaving sigh, trying to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry, what?” Sasha repeated, tilting her head. “That’s not...you’re _boyfriends!_ How did you not know?”

“Let’s take some time and unpack everything first,” Tim reasoned, pushing his drink to the side. “So you took him to lunch. A nice one?”

“Yes,” Martin agreed. “A nice one. In my opinion, at least. He seemed to like it.”

“So on a...date,” Sasha said slowly, struggling to understand.

“No, no! It was that Italian place on the corner. Just a lunch! But a nice one.” 

“Mate, I’ve only gone there on dates, gotta tell you. You took your _boyfriend_ on a _date_.” Tim leaned back in his chair and shook his head in disappointment. Sasha gave him a quizzical glance. 

“But you’ve taken me there, Tim! Right when you first started.”

“Was that not a date? I mean, we shagged afterwards, but still-”

“ _Right,_ right-”

Martin slammed his hand down on the table in annoyance. “Back to me, please! Actual crisis here!"

“Alright, _jeez._ So you asked about Gertrude, which, bad move- Jon’s not a particular fan.” Tim explained as Sasha nodded in agreement. “But why did you ask him if he was _allowed_ to date? That’s just weird. You should’ve run that by us.”

Martin contemplated this. And wondered if it could’ve fixed everything if he just used his words much earlier. _Damn._ “I...guess I could’ve yeah. But Sasha-”

“I can understand why he asked, honestly,” Sasha said, looking sheepish. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was drunk, but still. Not cool.”

“Ah, right,” Tim winced. “And then he...came out? Just like that?”

“He seemed guilty, y’know?” Martin saddened as he remembered the look on Jon’s face, so tentatively hopeful. “And then he apologized for not bringing it up _before we started dating_ and then I just sort of..fucked it all up from there.” Tim and Sasha stared at him, silent and full of pity. “Can I fix it?”

“What were your exact words?” Tim leaned forward and met Martin’s eyes with an intense stare. “And what did he say in response?”

Martin thought back and cringed as he repeated the encounter. “I er, apologized and then said ‘Did you think we were dating?’ and then-” Sasha interrupted with a groan and Tim slumped his head into his hands. Martin hurried to continue- they didn’t have the full story. “But then I apologized! Said it wasn’t the way I meant it to come out, and that I was stupid-”

“Martin, I mean this with the utmost kindness, but _what the fuck._ ”

“I know, Tim! I’m not good at this! And then he just said ‘No, I’m the stupid one’ and then left. And now he won’t talk to me or answer my calls.” He threw his head down into his arms and let out a frustrated groan. 

“Why didn’t you go after him? He can’t be that fast, not with those little legs-” 

“You’d be surprised,” Martin bit out. “He was gone by the time I got out. Must have been some sort of eye-magic or whatever.”

“Doesn’t work that way,” Sasha rolled her eyes, but softened her tone at Martin’s pleading eyes. “And you haven’t been able to talk to him since? It’s only been an afternoon, you might need to let him cool off. I mean, he did just get dumped. Or pseudo-dumped. How did you not know you were dating?”

“We _never_ talked about it or made it official, I swear!” Martin insisted vehemently. “I would’ve known! I was working up to it, but I thought we were just, y’know, making friends. I’ve never really been in a real relationship before, don’t you have a talk about this sort of thing?”

“True,” Tim nodded and sighed sympathetically. “Seems like you’re both infants in the rough waters of love. Unlike us.”

“Don’t say that ever again, thanks.” Sasha slapped Tim’s arm as he tried to throw it over her shoulder. “So you’re on different pages- he thinks you’re dating, you think you’re just getting to know each other, yeah?”

“Yes, yes! Exactly,” Martin nodded emphatically. “I don’t remember him _ever_ bringing up the word ‘dating’ until today. Well, at least I think…” He tried to run through all of their interactions in his mind. 

“You always walk arm-in-arm though,” Tim pointed out. “That’s date-y. Super cute, by the way.”

“He did that with Gerry too, though,” Sasha mused, putting a hand to her chin. “So maybe he’s just affectionate with the people he trusts.”

“And- _and!_ If he thought we were dating, why would he bring Gerry to trivia night? On _our_ date?” Martin crossed his arms, proud of his point. “I mean, by his logic, that’s just rude.”

“Eh,” Tim hedged. “By his logic, you were bringing _four_ people on your date. And a whole congregation he never really interacts with personally. Probably felt like he needed back-up.”

_Fuck._ “Fuck.”

“Indeed,” Sasha yawned, grabbing her drink and taking a hefty swig. “Well, you two have made a right mess of it. But I think you need to give him a day or two- if he’s not answering you now, he probably won’t for the rest of the day. Let him cool off.”

“Yeah, maybe don’t bust your way into the Archives like the Kool-Aid man just yet,” Tim agreed. “We’ll figure this out. Just need to think of a game plan. But for now, shots?”

Shots.

* * *

  
  


Come Wednesday, Martin was starting to doubt the tenability of Sasha’s plan. He’d received no boxes, no answer to the knocks on the Archives door (which was locked, by the way) or to his numerous text messages and voicemails. 

“He’ll have to come to services, Martin,” Tim told him with a pat on his shoulder. “He never misses those. We’ll corner him this Sunday.”

“Or maybe you could write him a note?” Sasha offered. Martin perked up. “Explain your side of things, slip it under the door?”

So here he was, sitting in his luxurious chair at his luxurious desk, scribbling his feelings for the world to see. Or, at least Jon. Still wasn’t any easier. Just as he was putting words to paper, he heard the familiar tones of one Elias Bouchard at his door.

“Knock knock.” This was said rather than done. _What a dick_ , Martin thought viciously. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“What a nice set-up!” A playful voice interjected. Martin swiveled around to find a tall, sturdy man with graying hair and an easy smile on his face. He was standing entirely too close to Elias, and Martin didn’t trust him one bit. “For a file clerk, at least.”

“Nothing but the best for our Martin, of course,” Elias gave a nasty smirk and Martin envisioned stabbing him multiple times. “I wanted to introduce you to one of our guests for the week.”

“Peter Lukas, at your service!” He held out a calloused hand as he walked over to the desk. Martin did not take it. “My, someone’s having a rough morning.”

“I think he’s had a bit of a row with my Archivist,” Elias replied with clearly false sympathy. Martin turned to glare at him. _Of course, he must have been watching. Weird little pervert._ “It must be so difficult to communicate with someone like that, hm? Someone who’s pledged their entire life to a higher power that’s completely beyond you. Seems like there’s no room for you, at times.”

“I can relate!” Peter let out a boisterous but empty laugh that left Elias looking a bit more than irritated, if the look he threw him was anything to go by. Martin took a very minute bit of pleasure from the action; anyone who could piss Elias off rated a little higher in his book.

The man sighed and turned away, offering him one last disdainful look. “Well, I do hope you’ll iron things out. Or at least end it cleanly. Conflicts of interest aside-”

“You’re a _dick_.”

The words spilled out of Martin’s mouth before he could stop them, but he found he didn’t want to take them back as he saw Elias sputter indignantly. Peter broke into uproarious laughter as he turned around to point a finger over at Martin.

“You, I _like_ you! Should come around here more often,” He put a hand on Elias’s back, steering him through the doorway. “Now, now, Elias. We’ve got people to meet, places to go!” He threw a wink in Martin’s direction and shut the door. Martin briefly considered dissecting whatever the hell just happened, but thought better of it. He had Archivists to woo after all.

Or re-woo, as it were.

* * *

Nothing. Radio silence for a week. No boxes at all. The door remained steadily locked, and Daisy remarked that she hadn’t seen him in or out at all. The man probably had a secret door that led in and out of his lair, Martin definitely wouldn’t put it past him. He’d slid his letter in an envelope under the door to no avail. He wondered if he should’ve put a heart by Jon’s name; maybe then he would know his intention? 

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and so Tim and Sasha had agreed to help corner the man after services. “He can’t fight us all off! Or any of us, really.” Tim reasoned.

Well, it was true.

Martin had been advised by Sasha to wear his ‘coziest sweater’ as the statement for the week was one of the Lonely. He’d been dreading it as soon as he found out; hadn’t Jon been worried about the Lonely after reading his poems? Was that something he should be worried about as well?

“You look good!” Sasha complimented as she pet the side of his chunky blue knit. “Very non-threatening. Me and Tim went with a muted gray, of course. Have to stay on theme.”

Martin would have to ask about the fears and their associated colors, apparently. This was all so confusing.

The cathedral was oddly hazy, as if someone put on a fog machine. While he wouldn’t put it past Elias to do something so melodramatic, it seemed more real. It certainly smelled real, rainy and distant with a hint of the sea. Sort of like that Peter Lukas fellow from before. Was he the ‘special guest’ of the week?

They took their seats closer to the front of the room so Martin could catch Jon’s eye. This was Sasha’s idea, but Martin didn’t think it would do much good. If Jon was so hurt he wouldn’t even speak to him, might he take his presence offensively? 

Elias took to the pulpit, smiling easily at the crowd. _Dick dick dick dick,_ Martin repeated in his mind, hoping he could hear it. If he could, he didn’t pay him any mind.

“Good morning,” his voice matched the smile, arrogant and proud like the cat that ate the canary. “We haven’t done a statement from the Lonely in so long, and the Archivist and I certainly agreed that we were remiss in doing so.”

_“Forsaken,”_ came the response from the crowd, including Martin. The word felt weighted with importance on his tongue, as if he were confessing to a sin or pleading for mercy.

They repeated their supplication to the Eye, and out came Jon.

His hair was messily pulled back, the first time Martin had seen it up during a service. He looked utterly spent, exhaustion plain to see in the purple shadows under his eyes. Sasha gave a sharp inhale through her teeth, obviously picking up on his sorry state. Martin slumped in his seat as Jon slowly made his way to the recorder, giving it a heavy and slow click before turning to the podium. He did not meet Martin’s eyes like he had last week; instead, he stared directly forward into the fog with those strange, unseeing eyes. 

“Statement of Andrea Nunis regarding a series of encounters in the streets of Genoa, Italy. Original statement given on the 25th March, 2010. Committed to Memory by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Witnessed by the Congregation of the Great Eye.”

The voice was hoarse, small. It held none of the confidence of services past, but a quiet resignation that made Martin’s chest ache. Elias’s grin grew wider.He watched as the congregation leaned forward, both in anticipation and to hear the words being said.

“Statement begins.”

A young woman traveling, alone. No partners, no friends. It was exciting and revelatory and so, _so_ lonely. Martin searched desperately for Jon’s voice and narration but it was a whisper-y undercurrent that escaped his grasp every time he reached for it. He was in the streets of Genoa, and he was alone. 

He barely registered the appearance of Gerry, though he heard the excited intake of breath from both Sasha and Tim. _Gerry, why aren’t you here?_ Martin lamented. I could use you, now. I’m so alone. Even in this sea of people- _keep your mother’s face in mind_. _No,_ no, _I don’t want her face I want someone else’s someone that actually_ cares-

When he came back, there were tears in his eyes; tears that matched the ones flowing freely down Jon’s face. Did he feel the same way Martin felt just now? The longing for a rock, any rock, only to find nothing there? Nothing, _no one._ The fog sat thick and heavy in his throat.

“Statement ends.”

The congregation was silent, save for a few sniffles. And Jon said nothing, provided no follow up. He simply turned his back and left, his slow footsteps deafening in the silence. After a few awkward moments Elias took his place, his expression unreadable. He was no longer smiling.

“Maybe,” Sasha whispered, her voice tentative. “Maybe we should give him a bit more time.”

* * *

  
  


Martin was sat on the steps of the institute as the rest of the congregation trickled out of the church with hushed whispers. Everyone seemed to be affected by the statement- though it ended hopefully, no one could miss the agonizing despair that flooded every one of Jon’s words, quiet as they were. Tim and Sasha seemed especially affected and immediately begged off to the bar.

“I would feel guilty cornering him after that, y’know?” Tim tried to tell Martin, who insisted on staying. “I don’t think I could watch him cry. That was bad enough. Maybe we try during the week, yeah? When he’s not so...statement-y?” And so he and Sasha went, leaving Martin with no plan and no way to find Jon, who’d disappeared immediately after the statement.

“Hey. Blackwood,” A voice grunted from above and a foot reached out to kick his.

“Ow,” Martin looked up to find Daisy towering over him, hands on her hips. “That was unnecessary.”

“I can’t stand this mopey shite,” she bit out, rolling her eyes. “Come with me.”

“Erm, alright,” he got to his feet gingerly, trailing after the woman as she took out a set of keys and entered the Institute. “What’s this about, then?”

“It’s about-” she fiddled with her keys, searching. “You and lover-boy over there. Just kiss and make up, already.” With that she thrust a key into his hand, ornate and silvery. “This’ll get you into the Archives. See if you can get him out of hiding.”

Martin’s grasp tightened around the key even as he stuttered out a response. “W-Wait, what? Am I-- am I allowed to go back there?”

“Fuuuck no,” Daisy drawled, a smirk on her lips. “But when has that ever stopped us, eh?” She nudged him with her elbow, and Martin found himself smiling back.

“Right, right!” He turned decisively and quickly made his way down the hall before turning on his heel. “Thank you, Daisy!” 

She gave him a salute and a smile. “At your service!”

He paused before the door; had Jon heard them? Was he even here? Would he run off? Martin pushed these thoughts out of his mind as he put the key to the lock. A click. He pushed against the door and it opened with a heavy and tortured moan. _Well if he hadn’t heard me before, he sure as hell heard me now._

The Archives look dimmer, almost dismal. They lacked that magical air he’d felt on his first visit; it was as if the place itself shifted to fit the mood of its owner. _Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not true. Well, it_ could _be true._

“Jon?” he called, barely pitching his voice above speaking level. “Are you there? It’s Martin. I-I just want to talk!” He glanced around the room, his eyes landing on the desk Jon usually perched at when he arrived. On it sat his envelope, unopened. Martin’s heart sunk in his chest.

He spent the next twenty minutes calling out, searching high and low for the man. He wasn’t on the first floor, and he checked the basement thoroughly but quickly. Jon wasn’t there, that much was clear. He slumped against the door with a sigh, wondering if he should give up and go back out. 

A creak. His head shot up. It wasn’t a footstep, no, but the sound of a door moving- the door to Jon’s office. He hesitated- should he invade his privacy like that? _You came all this way. Just a quick look, that’s all._

He tiptoed over to the door and opened it- no Jon, but a very Jon-like mess. Papers and cassettes as far as the Eye could see littered the desk and even the floor. It made his heart fill with both fondness and exasperation. And then suddenly a spider skittered across a drawer out of the corner of his eye. He whipped around to see the bottom drawer of a file cabinet slightly ajar and crooked. _I should fix that, right?_

He grabbed at the handle, testing it with a wiggle. It slid forward at an awkward angle, just enough for Martin to peek inside. _Just to see how to put it on straight, that’s all._ His eyes were drawn to the tapes inside- fifteen or so, they were clearly labeled and specially put aside. He reached down and took one in his hands.

_"Martin”_ the label read, in that elegant, lovely script. 

And beside it, a crudely drawn heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3
> 
> There was a bit of a delay in writing this, for that I apologize! I always try to stick to a chapter a week, at least, but I've been working on some other things and this one was a bit chunkier in terms of writing. Thanks for being patient!
> 
> What to do, what to do. We've only got two chapters left, after all! Let me know your thoughts. And once again, thanks so much for reading and commenting! Really makes my day.
> 
> Until next time!


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin listens to the tapes and goes to Confession.

_“...are Martin Blackwood. You’ve come to do Steve’s job, it would seem. I will not miss Steve.”_ Jon’s voice, tinny and full of static played back some of the first words of their meeting.

Martin inserted another tape in the office’s recorder.

_“Yes, Jon. That’s what friends do.”_ His own.

Another one. 

_“Martin Blackwood (11:52) Hi there Jon! I hope you are having a good weekend. Are you doing anything fun today?”_ It was Jon, reading his texts from two weeks ago aloud, in an imitation of Martin’s voice that was not unlike how he read statements. It was pretty spot-on. 

There were over twenty of them, each with a date written neatly on the tape itself. They were all paused at different points of their conversations; some needed to be rewound as if Jon listened to them fairly regularly, stopping and starting at different times. Even the most inconsequential conversation was documented and lovingly labeled with his name.

_“...just coming down to get those empty mugs. We’ve, uh, run out upstairs.”_

_“Oh, of course.”_

Martin barely remembered that one.

_“...actually quite good. You have Netflix, don’t you?”_

Martin had shared his password upon finding out that no, Jon did not have Netflix. He also helped him sign up for several other streaming services (using Elias’s credit card, of course).

The last one, though.

_“I’d read his poems, but I don’t think I could do them justice. Maybe I can get him to record them for me one day? Do you think he’d mind?...Never mind, I don’t know why I even asked. Useless.”_

A pause.

_“Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”_

Who was he talking to?

_“Martin’s different. He’s...good. I don’t know what to do with that. He makes me want to do better, you know? He makes me feel..like myself, for the first time in a while. I just hope that’s good enough for him.”_

It was _more_ than good enough.

He placed the tapes neatly back in the drawer and shut it firmly. He’d been sitting in the little room for hours, playing tape after tape of their interactions. He heard everything he missed and everything he dismissed that first time around.

_“..you’re my- you’re Martin.”_

_“Are you sure? That you’d want to bring me as your- well, to meet all of your friends?”_

And then he remembered.

_“You should probably tell Jon that.”_

Fuck, where was Gerry when you needed him?

He knew he wouldn’t be finding Jon that night. But he couldn’t hide forever, and Martin was a determined man. He didn’t let money or connections or qualifications ever stop him. He had, so far, survived accidentally joining a cult. And he’d be damned if he was thwarted by one tiny Archivist. 

He grabbed the unopened letter on his way out. This was something that needed to be said face-to-face. 

And Martin was starting to find he could be very loud when need be.

* * *

  
  


There was a woman waiting for him in his office Monday morning. She was standing in the doorway, petite and ageless and managing to be both friendly and intimidating at the same time. She gave him a welcoming smile.

“I’m afraid we’ve only spoken through email,” her voice was cool and smooth as she reached out a hand to shake. “I’m Rosie, Mr. Bouchard’s assistant. He’s requested your presence in his office this morning. I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

Martin’s hand went limp in hers. _So this is how it ends,_ he thought miserably. But he steeled himself, giving Rosie a brisk nod and following her lead. _If I’m going down, I’m going to bring Elias down with me. Or at least get in a few good swings._

He passed Tim and Sasha in the hallway but couldn’t bring himself to meet their eyes. His phone vibrated in his coat pocket, and he pulled it out discreetly to see a message in a newly-formed group chat entitled _Martin Blackwood Defense Squad._

**Tim Stoker (09:12)** _If that soggy napkin tries anything, you let him know that he can catch these hands. Timothy R. Stoker will not stand for any more of his bullshit._

**Sasha James (09:12)** _Tim’s fake middle name aside, I one hundred percent endorse this message._

Nice to know that he would be missed.

The walk was entirely too quick for Martin’s taste and they soon arrived in front of an imposing door bearing only the title “The Watcher.” _Jon doesn’t get “The Archivist” on his,_ Martin thought, feeling extra petty. _What a ridiculous little man._ Rosie opened the door and gestured inside, still smiling. It did nothing to calm his nerves, especially when the door shut with an impressive and echoing thud. 

Elias Bouchard sat at his desk, looking tired and irritated and more than a little unkempt. It was a remarkable change from his usual poised and haughty attitude and Martin took more than a little pleasure from it. The man sighed and gave a tight smile, gesturing to the seat in front of his desk. “Good morning, Martin. Please, have a seat.”

“I’d rather stand, thank you,” Martin said stiffly. It made him feel a bit more dignified. Elias merely rolled his eyes.

“Suit yourself,” He leaned back in his chair as he intertwined his hands on the desk. “I’ve called you here for a rather...embarrassing request, to be honest.”

“Sorry, what?” Martin had been expecting to be fired on the spot. _Embarrassing?_ This unsettled him rather more than the hypothetical firing.

“I’m going to need you to fix things with Jon. This row of yours has managed to completely upend his work as the Archivist and we can’t have that, you see.” 

_Wait, what?_ He said as much.

“It’s a purely professional concern and I’d like it done as quickly as possible. Now, I can let you-”

“No, no,” Martin’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t going to play any more of his ridiculous games. “I don’t think that’s what this is. What are you playing at?”

Elias looked suitably affronted. “I beg your pardon? I’m looking out for the sanctity of this institute, and unfortunately that requires your help, I’m loath to say.”

“You’ve spent every other minute undermining our relationship,” Martin pressed. _“_ That’s what’s ruined the ‘sanctity of your institute,’ or whatever the hell you’re going on about. Explain.” He willed himself not to shake with the adrenaline of the situation- confronting the man was a hell of a drug.

“I don’t need to explain my actions to the likes of you-”

Martin snorted. “You do if you want me to ‘fix things.’” This was not true, not at all. He was going to do it anyway, of course. But he wanted to make it clear that he was holding the power in this situation, that Elias was the one who needed _him._ It felt like a game of high-stakes poker. Or what he imagined one to be; he'd never played.

“We both know that’s not true.”

Martin shrugged. “Do we?” Elias stared, but Martin didn’t blink. _Who’s the Watcher now, eh?_ “I’m waiting.”

The man’s jaw tightened and Martin tried not to let his fear show on his face. _Fuck, was that too far? Should’ve just taken the chance when you got it-_ but then the man slumped in his chair, looking oddly diminished and making Martin feel taller than ever.

“It’s Peter.”

_Huh?_ Martin also said this aloud. He felt like he was in one of his conversations with Jon, getting bombarded every other minute with a new and unsettling fact. _Are all avatars of the Eye like this?_

“That damn Lonely statement, I knew I shouldn’t have let Jon proceed with it,” he got out of his chair, pacing around uncharacteristically as Martin backed up. “But I knew it would hurt both of you and well, that was rather the point.” Martin scoffed, but Elias ignored him, getting more animated in his speech.

“And then Jon starts with the tears and of course that insufferable man just swoops in like some demon straight from hell with his “Oh, Jon what a _lovely_ job,” and “There’s always a spot for you on the _Tundra_ if you like, Jon" and I _can’t-_ ” He swept the papers off his desk in a dramatic fashion.

_“-fucking-”_ A glass smashed.

_“-stand it!”_ A small table upended, sending china shattering along the floor. The man took in heaving mouthfuls of air, staring manically at Martin, whose eyes had widened as he backed into the door and avoided most of the fallout. Martin, the sole witness to his breakdown. 

“I have created a _perfect Archivist_ ,” Elias continued, almost snarling. _Christ, there’s more?_ “We are renowned. We are respected by every fear _._ Do you understand how hard I’ve worked? Every avatar wants to visit _my institute._ Even Jane Prentiss tried to attend services, however disgusting the clean-up was. I will not have my life’s work upended by some-” he looked Martin up and down dismissively, “-some _person._ ”

“Well,” Martin began hesitantly, willing Elias not to throw anything else. “This _person_ is your only chance at fixing things. And to be clear,” his voice strengthened as he gathered momentum, “this is _your_ mess. If you didn’t want Peter Lukas to come sniffing after Jon you shouldn’t have isolated him like that.” Martin was also fairly sure that that wasn’t what this was about- Lukas likely was just riling the man up and considering their...strange dynamic, it worked. “So what are you going to do about it?”

Elias shot him a nasty look as he collapsed onto a couch, a white-knuckle grip still on the nearest object he could grab, which happened to be a small brass spyglass. “Jon has… confession hours, to put it in terms you’d understand. Where people can give their statements in-person, and have their questions answered by the Archivist. Tomorrow night, at seven-” he paused, waving a dismissive hand at Martin. “-you’ll go, declare your _love_ or whatever you need to do, and get him to stop moping around the institute like some sort of war widow.”

“How do you know he won’t just run away?” Martin asked, well aware of Jon’s penchant for hiding.

“He’ll be suitably distracted, I’ll make sure of it,” Elias sniffed. “I know a thing or two about blind spots.”

“Fine,” Martin agreed. After all, this seemed like his best and only chance, despite his distaste for the man making it happen. “But I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for-”

“For Jon, yes,” Elias rolled his eyes. “Now run along, please. And _don’t_ tell anyone about this.” He was absolutely going to tell everyone about this.

Martin’s hand paused on the doorknob and he turned for one last jab. “And nobody comes to the institute to see you. They only come for Jon.” He gave a nasty smile. “He really is a perfect Archivist.”

Having to quickly dodge the spyglass thrown his way was utterly worth it for the enraged look on Elias Bouchard’s face as he shut the door.

* * *

  
  


“I can’t talk right now,” Martin told Tim and Sasha, who’d been waiting on him in his office upon returning. “I’ve got to practice what I’m going to say.”

“So you’re not getting fired?” Tim asked urgently. “I don’t have to throw hands with Bouchard at Sunday Services?” He looked rather disappointed. Martin explained the situation, pausing at the appropriate places as they reacted to the revelation of the tapes (“That’s the cutest!”) and Elias’s breakdown (“ _Please_ tell me you got it on tape.”) They offered their services, but Martin quickly turned them down. 

“It’s just got to be me, I think.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to run anything by us?” Sasha asked, dubious. “With your track record...”

“Yes, yes, I know- but this time I’m sure. Trust me.”

Tuesday night came both too fast and too slowly for his liking. He spent most of two days and one sleepless night pacing, wondering what to say and rereading the letter he’d written. The sentiment behind it was real, even if the words were clumsy. Hopefully he could get his point across before Jon attempted an escape or Martin’s own idiotic brain rendered him mute.

The sun had just set, bathing the cathedral in a muted, dim glow. Candles had been lit and flickered along the walls as Martin reverently made his way down the aisle, turning left to a small, wooden booth ornately designed and looking rather newer than most of the décor. _Gertrude, right._

Jon was in there. Had to be, if the sobbing woman pushing past Martin at the door was any indication. But he made no noise, and Martin was very conscious of the echo of his footsteps on the marble floor. _How can he not hear that?_

He took a deep breath and opened the door. The inside smelled of incense and something inherently Jon, old books and ink and whatever intoxicating shampoo he used. There was a grate separating the two of them, but Martin could see the outline of the man and a small, flickering light accompanied by a soft clicking. He was playing with his lighter, flicking it on and off as if entranced. But the sound of a tape recorder clicked on, and Jon was broken out of whatever daze he’d been in.

“I’m sorry-” he began, voice lower and taking on the typical tones of the Archivist.

“It’s alright,” Martin replied and he watched the man’s outline freeze. “Jon-”

The man got up, clearly flustered. “I have to-”

_“Stay,”_ he entreated. “Please. For me.”

A pause. The creaking of wood as the man sat back down. “What do you want?” It was a whisper, sad and low.

“To give my statement,” Martin replied. Jon scoffed and he tried again, willing the man to believe him. “I’m serious.”

“I don’t want it,” Jon said imperiously, breaking Martin’s heart only a little. Something in his mind told him this was not true, and he tried to hold on to that.

“Well, maybe the Eye does then,” he argued. “So consult with...it, or them or whatever.”

Silence. _Can he actually talk to it like that?_

“Fine.” 

Martin took a deep, nervous breath. “Alright, well-”

“People usually kneel when they give statements.” Jon’s voice was low and haughty and despite it’s coldness Martin felt a small tingle of delight and something else he didn’t want to name.

_“Christ_ , that’s not helping.” He said as he fumbled to his knees anyway.

“Christ has nothing to do with it, actually-”

“Jon!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He took a deep breath and began the statement for him, more Archivist than Jon. “Statement of Martin Blackwood, taken direct from subject. Statement begins.”

“I was always a lonely child,” he began, surprising himself. This wasn’t what he had written in the letter but the words flowed from him like an actor reading well-rehearsed lines, easy and comfortable. “I’ve never had much in the way of friends and the only family I have is my mother. She never wanted me and I’ve come to accept that. It’s hard to look at the face of the man who left you to rot, even in diluted form. I’ve got her eyes, you know. But she never liked making eye contact either. I think she grew to dislike herself even more than she did me. The way her body and her mind failed her. The way I was constantly, _constantly_ failing her.

“She always said she deserved more. More than a deadbeat, alcoholic father and a useless son. I tried to give that to her. Give her the life she deserved. When she got sick, I dropped out of school. Stopped visiting any connections I had. Every day was hers alone, caring for her and trying to make her happy. I gave her _everything_. But she took, and she took, and she took until I didn’t have anything more to give and that was when her mind just couldn’t take it anymore, you know? At first, she was just a bit nicer- forget that she told me to do something, and didn’t yell when I didn’t do it. It was nice _._ And stupid, stupid me didn’t get her the help she needed until it was too late. Because I thought she was being _nice._

“The next months got worse and worse. I was starting to miss the times when she yelled because at least she knew I was there. The hate was an acknowledgement. Even though I was useless, I _was there_. But then she started- she started to look at me like I wasn’t even in the room. Just nothing, nothing at all. Like a piece of furniture or less than, even. That’s when I knew I didn’t have it in me anymore. She was right. I wasn’t enough.

“So I tried to find people that were. People who could give her the help she needed. I knew she wouldn’t get better, I’m not delusional. But we could barely afford to keep the house and on top of the monthly payments for the home it was impossible. That place was my own personal hell for twenty nine years _._ But losing it still hurt. It was the only thing we had left. The dismal studio is all I can afford and it doesn’t feel like home.

“I got this job as a last resort. It didn’t pay well and it certainly wasn’t my first choice, but when I got that email from Rosie I knew I had to take it. I had a good feeling. I can’t explain it.

“And then, well- you know this part. The interview was weird, Daisy’s absolutely terrifying, I’m thinking of running out and never coming back, but suddenly I’m taking it. Jessica’s leading me upstairs to that shitty little room filled with your marked-up statements. I’ve got no fucking _clue_ what’s going on.

“But then there was Tim. And Sasha. They dropped the whole ‘fear cult’ bomb and suddenly this last resort seems more like a suicide mission. It was too much. So I holed myself up in that little office and screamed. It felt too much like an inescapable nightmare. I’m not there anymore, I’m just swallowed up in this big horrifying world that’s beyond me. Then Jessica phones me, asks me to go down to meet you- and I have to tell you, I’m utterly terrified. Expecting a crotchety-old wizard or some sort of creature from the dark that's going to, I don’t know, _smite_ me or something.

“But then I saw you, Jon. And you were just a man. I mean, incredibly intimidating and untouchable. But you were a _person._ You looked at me and you saw me. You took my tea and you took my arm and I was _there_. I wasn’t useless. I could help someone. I didn’t really believe in all of this fear mumbo-jumbo, to tell you the truth. I didn’t want to believe in any of it. I’d accidentally joined a _cult,_ for Christ’s sake. And despite all of this, I still wanted friends. I wanted to hold on to these tenuous connections no matter how terrible the circumstances. I decided to take a chance on it and I went to your service.

“I’ve never been a religious man. My mother used to take us to church every Sunday, don’t get me wrong. But it never felt safe to me. I never took the solace in it that you’re supposed to. It just felt wrong, like a suit I’d grown out of. But whatever this was- whatever you were- was different. It wasn’t a salvation. I still don’t know what it is. But I’ve never believed in something beyond myself until I saw you in that church. Until you opened your mouth and made me see that Stranger in the alley. I felt...thrillingly horrible. I was a part of something. I was seen and I was _there._

“And suddenly I was there all the time- Tim and Sasha got me a desk, did you know? They wanted me there. They wanted to _help_ me understand, they wanted to be friends with me. And you- I could help you! I could get you tea and I could make you smile and get you out of your head. I was so, so useful. Useful and dumb and blind.

“Because I couldn’t think for a second that you wanted me too. That anyone, especially someone as far above me as you, could ever want to be my friend. My partner. If I allowed myself to hope for even a second that we could be something, everything would fall apart. I do that, you know? I ruin things. 

“And I think I ruined something really good. Because I didn’t have the courage to see what was in front of me all along. I couldn’t think of a relationship without need. Because you didn’t need me. But...but you _wanted_ me. And isn’t that better? Purer, even. I’ve never known wanting like this until I met you. It’s not about being half of a whole like all the books say. It’s about being _someone_ all by yourself and having somebody come along who wants that, flaws and all.

“My mother was right. She deserved more. But I think I do too. And so do you. I may not understand your world or what being the Archivist really means. Maybe I never will. But I like _you,_ Jon. And that’s enough. You’re weird and you’re kind and you’re _good_ and you deserve everything. And so do I,” his voice broke, catching in his throat. “So do I.”

There was silence. Martin felt deeply drained, like every ounce of energy had been put into those words, surprisingly eloquent and calm. It felt cathartic putting everything out on the table. Giving Jon all the ammunition he needed to destroy him in one fell swoop. But it was done. Martin had done it, and damn the consequences.

He didn’t hear the sound of squeaking wood, signaling Jon getting up. He didn’t hear the door creaking open and shut. He wasn’t aware of his own door opening until the soft candlelight hit his face and the outline of the Archivist stood above him and he gazed into his eyes. Soft and brown and sweet. Jon. The raised height of the confessional made it so Jon was only about a foot above him, even while Martin knelt. So it was easy, then, for Jon to take one finger and lift his chin and lean down and kiss him, sweet and tender. Everything warm and right and _good._

It felt natural to take Jon in his arms and fumble back in the small booth. It felt natural when Martin hissed in pain as Jon stepped on his foot and muttered an apology into his lips. It even felt natural for Martin to fall backwards, wildly off-balance from the weight of Jon in his arms.

And naturally the splintering of wood signaled the confessional giving way and the two of them fell to the marble floor with a painful thunk, a pile of limbs and timber. They both stared at each other, eyes wide with surprise and pain and something else. Jon, hair a mess and robes askew, gave him a dazed smile.

“Statement ends, I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Hope you liked! Finally some resolution for these two bumbling fools, and a bit of a treat for the next chapter because I need a happy ending/starting point for whatever part of this I write next.
> 
> Thanks for reading and making it this far! I truly appreciate it. Wasn't actually expecting this amount of people to like my silly little story. Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> <3


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin. And Tim and Sasha.

“I think we destroyed it!” Jon said gleefully from his current position of straddling Martin’s waist. Martin could feel his body heating up with every inch of their contact- his warm, steady weight, his hands on Martin’s chest, a lock of his hair brushing his face. “How exhilarating! Do you think this was how Gertrude felt when she set it on fire?” _Quite possibly._

“I think I have a splinter in my back,” he replied, still staring into Jon’s eyes and unwilling to be the first to look away. 

“Oh,” Jon jumped up and immediately grabbed his hand to help him to his feet. His bones creaked in protest at the movement, though it certainly felt better than laying on a hunk of splintered wood. 

Jon didn’t let go of his hand. He just stood there, smiling a fond and dopey smile that Martin had to return. “So-um-”

“We can talk up in my rooms?” Jon suggested, swaying their hands back and forth in a playful manner. “More privacy. Also, I’m a bit scared of Daisy finding us on her rounds.”

“S-Sure! Yeah, that’s great,” he said maybe a little too enthusiastically. He was anxious but excited to get a peek behind the curtain- Jon hadn’t given away much, besides the kiss that left him weak in the knees. “I’d like to, er, hear your ‘statement’ as well?” 

Jon tugged them along, carefully stepping around bits of confessional debris. “I’m not quite sure what you mean. You know most everything about me now, Martin.”

“Don’t be daft,” he gently chided, giving Jon’s hand a squeeze. “I haven’t heard about your wild Uni days, for instance. What was little Jonny Sims like as a child- were you always so serious? I told you my life’s story, I think that’s worth a bit of transparency.” He tried to say this as kindly as possible. He was curious but he didn’t want to overstep, not when they’ve only just made up.

“There’s not much to tell,” Jon insisted as he led them through a back exit, the same one he disappeared to after statements. The hallway was long and dark and they passed several doors along the way, marked with words that Martin couldn’t make out. “And don’t call me Jonny.”

“Noted,” Martin stumbled a bit; Jon was fast when he wanted to be. “I just- I don’t know, I’m feeling a bit vulnerable right now? Does that always happen when you give a statement?”

“Sometimes,” Jon turned them down a corridor that led back to the main building, which was luckily much better lit. “Really depends on the person. The woman before you was quite put-out afterwards. But her statement dealt with the Crawling Rot. I find Lonely statements tend to be a bit more cathartic for people.”

Martin paused before the door, bringing them both to a stop. “Wait, Lonely? I was- I wasn’t _really_ giving a statement, I was just-”

“Martin,” Jon interrupted, turning to face him and take both of his hands. “The Eye only takes when there’s something to give. You had a statement for me and I took it.” 

He thought back to those minutes where he’d professed his soul, utterly emptied his heart as if he meant to all along. _Was that the power of the Eye?_ So Martin _had_ been touched by the fears, the very fears he professed to be ignorant of. He remembered that first lunch with Tim and Sasha and their disbelief at his lack of knowledge, Sasha’s gentle prying.

_Was your childhood...isolating? You kept to yourself?_

“So I’m...Lonely?” he whispered, unwilling to believe it. “That’s me?”

“Not anymore,” Jon replied, gazing solemnly at him. He took Martin’s right hand and kissed it with the reverence one reserved for a holy relic. “I see you.” 

Martin held his gaze even as his eyes watered. “I see you too, Jon.” They stood there for what felt like an eternity but must have only been a few moments before Jon coughed and looked down at his feet, dropping one of Martin’s hands. “Ah, let’s- let’s go.” They stepped into the back corner of the Institute’s main lobby, somewhere to the right of Daisy’s empty desk. 

“Don’t think your sweet words will get you out of talking,” Martin teased. “I want to know more than how you like your tea or that your favorite food is cake-”

“That’s not quite true, actually,” Jon said as he led him towards the Archives. “I mean, I do have a sweet-tooth. But cake’s not my favorite.” He gave Martin a mischievous look. “It is, however, Elias’s.”

Martin couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his throat. “You’re terrible,” he giggled. “I love it.” He didn’t miss the way Jon’s face reddened further and he would have continued to tease if he wasn’t suddenly reminded of their location- he was _sure_ he checked every bit of the Archives when searching for Jon. How could Martin have missed his rooms? He voiced as much.

“Oh, I’ll show you,” Jon pulled him over near his office door, brushing away a cobweb or two to reveal-

“There was _not_ a door there before,” Martin insisted, pointing at the perfectly innocuous doorway he was sure he’d never seen. “Is this- is this that _door_ thing you told me to avoid? The one that just appears?”

“No, thank the Eye for that,” Jon rolled his eyes. “Trust Helen to come barging in when she’s not wanted. No, Annabelle set this up for me.” He opened the door to reveal a dimly-lit twisting staircase. “I’m not a fan of the cobwebs but it’s unavoidable with her. There’s always been a door here, but your eyes will slide right over it. Keeps out any unwanted visitors.” He paused on the stairs, gesturing for Martin to follow. “It’s a bit of a walk.”

It was in fact a hike. Martin expected it; the high ceilings of the Archives were no laughing matter. It led to a cozy but spacious set of rooms that were so unmistakably _Jon._ There were bookshelves lining almost every wall, though they couldn’t contain every tome. There were little stacks by the couch and armchairs, even on the table in the kitchen. There was an oriental rug spread on the living room floor and a much-used fireplace piled with fresh logs. Everything looked expensive but worn, high-quality but lived in. 

“You can, ah- make yourself at home!” Jon gestured nervously to the couch, rushing over to pick up a few stray books and a blanket that was thrown carelessly over the arm. “Sorry for the mess.” 

“No trouble,” Martin said, distracted by the various tchotchkes and ephemera lining his shelves. It was fascinating to see the man’s private space; he wanted to pick everything up and examine it closely for clues like a detective in a crime novel. He found what looked to be a charcoal sketch of a cat but before he could read the scribbled signature Jon began to speak.

“I’m sorry. For before. With the whole, you know, dating thing? I didn’t mean to presume, I should’ve asked. Gerry’s always telling me to _communicate_ and I was being so stupid-”

“Hey, hey,” Martin set the sketch down and hurried over to Jon, who was fidgeting in place and staring at his shoes. He took him by the shoulders and bent down to meet his eyes. “It’s fine. I think we’re both a little lacking in the communication department, to be honest.” Jon let out a weak chuckle though he kept his gaze steadily on the ground. “And we can be dating. If you still want to, that is. I mean, I hope-”

“Of course, yes!” Jon looked up at him earnestly, grabbing Martin’s arms. “I want to be dating. Still. Or, I guess- yes. Let’s date.” Martin’s face was blood-red, he could feel it, and Jon’s wasn’t much better. He paused as Jon continued to fidget, looking like he wanted to say something more. “And you’re- you’re okay with the whole- well, what I said at lunch, my being asexual, I understand if you don’t-”

Martin took Jon’s face between his hands, tilting it upward in a reversal of Jon’s motions in the church. “You’re perfect.” He gave him a chaste kiss to the forehead. “And whatever you’re comfortable with-” he gave him a kiss to the cheek, “-I’m comfortable with.” He kissed his other cheek. “Just let me know.” He paused, taking in their closeness and Jon’s flustered air. “W-Was that okay? I’m sorry-”

His question was answered with a searing kiss and an armful of Archivist.

* * *

“This is the Admiral,” Jon passed him a photo of an orange cat, fat and fluffy. “He is a very good boy.”

They were curled up on Jon’s couch under a knitted blanket, the fireplace emitting a cheery warmth. Martin had found a pile of photos while Jon put the kettle on and they were going through them one by one (on Martin’s insistence).

“Is that your old cat?” He asked, sifting through what had to have been dozens of photos of the cat in different positions. “He’s adorable.”

“He is, isn’t he?” It may have been a question, but Jon’s tone left no room for argument. “He belongs to an ex-girlfriend of mine. We don’t talk much, but she still sends me pictures sometimes.” _Ex-girlfriend?_ Martin’s mind blanked, trying to picture this woman. _Was she tall? Short? Chubby? Does Jon have a type? Am I Jon’s type?_

“I can see your mind racing,” Jon teased, pecking his cheek. “I’ve got a photo of her around here somewhere. I think you would have gotten along.” His voice turned wistful. “Anyway, look at this one- doesn’t he look so beautiful in the sun?” Jon was also in this picture, holding the Admiral in his arms and basking in the sun himself. His face was young and unlined, his hair a bit less gray. He was smiling broadly and wearing-

“Hang on, is that eyeliner?” _God,_ he looked good in eye-makeup. “You should wear that more often.”

“I’ll have to buy some more,” Jon mumbled, leaning farther into Martin’s side. “Elias thought it was ‘unbecoming’ of my position.”

“That’s because he can’t pull it off like you can,” Martin replied, matter-of-fact. “You’ve got a perfect cat-eye there. That’s talent.”

“Shut up,” Jon grumbled with a smile. “Look, it’s me and Gerry.” The picture looked more recent even though it was a polaroid- this Jon more resembled the man next to him. They were both smiling, Gerry with an arm around Jon’s shoulder and a wink to the camera. “Gerry says I should have a polaroid of everyone I know. That way I can tell if a Not!Them tries to replace someone. I’ll have to dig out the camera for you.”

“Um, alright.” Martin filed the term away for later, making a note to ask Sasha about it.

Jon paused at the next photo, his hand tightening around its corner. “This was on my first day of Services.” It’s a picture of Jon in all of his regalia, hands nervously clasped in front of him as he stands on the steps of the cathedral. Elias has one hand on his shoulder and is grinning at the camera. It’s nauseating. On Jon’s other side was a tall, dark-skinned woman with sparkling eyes and a smirk on her face. She’s wearing a hat tilted fetchingly on her head along with a small black veil. On anyone else it would look ridiculous, but she managed to pull it off. “That’s Annabelle Cane. She introduced me to Elias, you know.” At the sound of his name Martin is reminded of Elias’s request from yesterday. _I promised to be better at communicating. This will be the start._

“Jon,” he began seriously, turning to the man who was still staring quietly at the photo as if lost in thought. “I wanted to tell you- Elias wanted me to talk to you, make up with you.” He watched as the man’s face began to fall and he hurried to continue. “But that’s not why I spoke to you. I _wanted_ to make up with you, he just let me know where I could find you-”

“And distracted me,” Jon finished, face turning to stone. Martin remembered the lighter in Jon’s hands, flickering on and off. _So that was it, then?_

“You can Know, if you want,” Martin continued, wanting to bring a smile back to his face. “The confrontation and everything. Know that I’m telling the truth. I won’t think it’s an invasion or anything. If that’s- if that’s what you need.” 

Jon sighed. “No, Martin. I trust you.” Martin doesn’t think Jon knew how much those words meant to him, so he threw an arm around his shoulders and held him close. “It’s Elias that I don’t trust. I mean, what reason could he possibly have for-”

“It was Peter,” Martin explained. “It was actually quite funny. Something about him skulking about your Archives and trying to recruit you-” Jon barked out a laugh, startling him.

“Oh, that?” Jon continued to giggle. _“Really?_ Peter’s always doing that. Usually it’s between divorces, but it pisses Elias off so I just play along. I mean, I really _was_ upset that day, obviously-”

“Wait, between divorces?” Jon stared back at him, not computing. “They’re _married?”_

Jon paused, his eyes flashing green for a moment. “Er, not anymore, I suppose. Peter’s just got served the papers. Elias is really getting quick at this.”

Martin gaped, mind-boggled. “How many times has this happened?”

Another flash of green. “This will be the seventh. Huh, I thought it was more. Oh! Speaking of.” Jon jumped off the couch, the blanket slipping to the floor as he ran across the room and grabbed a slim, leather-bound book off a shelf. He handed it to him, suddenly bashful. “For you.”

It was clearly very old with brown, worn leather. He opened the book very carefully and his eyes widened as he saw the first page.

_Poems. John Keats. Year of Publication: 1817._

_Holy shit._

“I know you agreed that Keats was derivative,” Jon started. “But your poems don’t lie, Martin. Not that I think your poems are derivative, of course. But I thought you’d like-”

“Jon I can’t take this,” Martin argued, absolutely overwhelmed at what was clearly a first edition and worth more than his yearly salary. “It’s too much. H-How did you get this?” He tried to press it back into Jon’s hands but the man wasn’t having it. 

“I stole it from Elias’s library,” Jon stated. “So it’s as good as mine. He has to know I have it, he’s _always_ watching.” Another eye roll at the ceiling. “And now I’m giving it to you!”

Martin placed the book gently on the coffee table, too afraid to hold the fragile volume in his hands. “I-I don’t know what to say, Jon. That’s really, really thoughtful. It’s more than I deserve.”

“No it’s not,” Jon replied. “It’s exactly what you deserve. You deserve everything, Martin. Isn’t that what you said?” He leaned into Martin’s side, smiling.

“No fair, using my own words against me!” Martin whined, though he snuggled the man closer to his chest. “Hang on, is he going to want this back?”

Jon yawned and shot him a lazy grin. “I don’t know!”

* * *

  
  


The next morning dawned bright and early. Too early, if you asked Martin. He and Jon had talked well into the night, trading stories of no consequence. It was hard for Jon to open up, but Martin had managed to get just a picture of a childhood in Bournemouth almost as lonely as Martin’s was. They had fallen asleep on the couch, Jon snoring lightly on his chest as Martin ran a hand through his hair. But Jon wasn’t in his arms anymore.

He sat up, blearily taking in his surroundings. The fire had gone out hours ago and there was a chill in the air, but he noticed a steaming cup of tea on top of a note on the end table.

_Got up early to talk to Elias, had to take care of a few things. Meet me in the Archives at 9!_

_-Jon_

Another heart.

He took a sip of the tea- a bit over steeped, but not too bad overall. He wondered when Jon had slunk away. Martin wasn’t a particularly heavy sleeper, but he’d been so comfortable last night. He hoped this meeting with Elias was going well, or at least that the man had calmed down. His phone buzzed; Jon had also made sure to plug it into his charger. _So thoughtful._

**Unknown Number (7:32)** _I was gone for ONE week, Martin._

**Unknown Number (7:32)** _I stg_

**Unknown Number (7:32)** _If I come back and you’re not boyfriends there’s going to be hell to pay._

**Unknown Number (7:33)** _Xoxo Gerry_

Seems like he solved things just in time, then.

He used Jon’s bathroom to freshen up, attempting to make yesterday’s clothes look somewhat presentable. _I can throw on a cardigan later, it’ll be fine._ He groaned at the thought of Sasha and Tim seeing his ‘walk of shame’ clothes. He spent the rest of the time puttering about Jon’s rooms and admiring his impressive collection of tiny porcelain cats, all reminiscent of the Admiral.

He made his way downstairs around 8:45, not wanting to be late even though he was less than a minute away. To his surprise Sasha and Tim were standing at the main entrance, their animated chatter reaching his ears. “Hey guys!” He gave them an awkward wave.

They both jumped. “Martin, what the hell?” Sasha exclaimed, hand to her chest. “Where did you come from? What’s going on?”

“Er, around the corner! I was here earlier.” Technically it was true. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Dunno mate!” Tim responded cheerfully, leaning against a table. “Got an email from Elias saying to report to the Archives bright and early, and here we are! Speaking of, how did things go with-”

The door behind Tim creaked opened and Jon appeared, a precariously-balanced tray in hand. “Good morning Tim, Sasha.” He paused, giving Martin a sweet smile. _“Martin.”_

Tim and Sasha shared a glance between them before they both broke out into loud and cheerful whooping, startling Jon into almost dropping his tray.

“I _knew_ you kids would make it work!” Tim gave Martin an aggressive slap on the back. “Martin, tell me _everything.”_

“Hold on, hold on!” Sasha scolded, helping Jon pass out the drinks- they were the chai lattes from the café down the street where they’d first gone out to tea. “As much as I want to hear, I’d like to know why we’re down here. Thanks for the drinks, by the way.”

“O-Oh, you’re welcome,” Jon stuttered, handing Martin his latte and giving him a shy peck on the cheek. Tim whistled and Sasha subsequently jabbed him with her elbow. “Well, I spoke to Elias this morning-”

“He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?” Martin worried, thinking of last night. “We kind of ruined that confessional-”

“You _what?”_ Tim sputtered, choking on his tea.

“No, no- though he wasn’t exactly pleased,” Jon assured him. “But we spoke, and I told him- well, I was thinking about how Gertrude used to-”

“Also shag in the confessional?”

_“Tim-”_

_“-have assistants_ , and I was wondering if you- well, you three, would like to be mine?”

“Sorry, what?” Sasha froze, staring at Jon with wide eyes. “As in, archival assistants? Like Michael and Eric and Fiona used to be?”

“W-Well, yes,” Jon said, wringing his hands. “But only if you’d like to! I promise not to chase you off to any other entities or use you to stop any fake apocalypses. I’m no Gertrude.”

Martin continued to stare. “I’m sorry, what was that about apocalypses-”

“Do we get a raise?” Tim asked, perking up. “I’d love a raise.”

“Of course. And you’d be moving down here once I ah, get things more organized. I’m sorry for the mess-”

“What would our duties be?” Sasha was clearly starting to get excited. Martin couldn’t blame her, though he was more excited at the prospect of spending all day with Jon. “I mean, yes! I accept! So does Tim! And Martin as well, of course.”

“Hey! Why am I ‘of course’?”

“Well, you’d still need to help out with research,” Jon began. “I’m going to need your critical eye on some of these cases. But we’ll be focusing more on the statement of the week, really diving into it, maybe investigating an artefact or two, meeting with avatars-”

“I draw the line at clowns,” Tim firmly stated. “But I _did_ hear about that gorgeous End avatar, Oliver something or other? I’m on board with _that.”_

“Oliver Banks,” Sasha supplied. She turned back to Jon, a giant grin forming. “Jon, this is a dream come true. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this! Of course, I’ll be the Head Assistant, the co-captain if you will-”

“Hey, that’s not fair-”

“I’ve got seniority!”

While Tim and Sasha continued to bicker, Martin turned to Jon. “Are you sure you want me on your team?” he asked hesitantly. “I don’t really have experience with archiving-”

“Who does?” Jon waved a dismissive hand and took a sip of his drink. “Not really the point, is it?” _Uh._ “But if you don’t want to-”

“Of course I do,” Martin replied, taking his hand. “You’ll just have to show me the ropes. Be a little patient. This is a bit different than hauling boxes around.”

“Sure,” Jon said softly, looking up at him with those big brown eyes. “You’ll have to show me how to, ah, delegate. And deal with those two. Deal with people. You know.” He gestured over to his two new assistants, who were now excitedly chattering about Services.

“We could be like, _sexy altar boys_ or something-”

“With outfits!”

Jon and Martin shared a look before breaking out into chuckles. “Oh! I almost forgot,” Jon frantically searched his pockets, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. “Check it out!” He brandished it proudly. “My first paycheck.” Martin’s heart swelled as he imagined Jon standing in front of Elias with a list of demands for the man to immediately carry out.

“Look at you!” Martin took him in his arms, tucking Jon’s head under his chin and ignoring the coos in the background. “You’re learning.” _That makes two of us._ He took a moment to take stock of what his life had become. 

Martin Blackwood: Age- still twenty nine. Job- slightly higher-paid cult member. Status- currently in a relationship with a High Priest and Conduit of the Great Eye.

That’s growth, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> We've made it to the end! I'm very, very thankful to everyone who actually read their way through 50k words of a cult AU that actually started as just one scene inspired by an episode of Fleabag, ha! I can't tell you how appreciative I am to everyone who gave kudos and left a comment, it really always made my day and inspired me to keep going with this crazy story. I've got a companion piece I've already started that's Jons POV for this story (along with some fun extra scenes) and some little one shots as well. There will probably be a main sequel at some point but I'll probably take a little break before then. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing and I can't thank you guys enough! :) <3
> 
> My tumblr is @bookofwildes if you'd like to reach me, and you can subscribe to my user updates or bookmark this series so you can see when I add another bit to it (which will probably be within two weeks, who am I kidding I can't stop writing). 
> 
> I'll see you again soon!


End file.
